


Like Hell and High Lightning

by muse_of_mirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Future Fic, I Don't Even Know, Kissing, Lightning - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Magic!Stiles, Post Season 2, Pre-Slash, Stiles Saves The Day, injured!Derek, injured!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muse_of_mirth/pseuds/muse_of_mirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course Stiles saves the day when Derek gets struck by lightning - supernatural lightning, no less.  It's up to Stiles, the pack, and Deaton to figure out what new threat has descended on Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, the idea for this one shot just sprang up on me. I could imagine the scenario in my head and just HAD to write it. This may become the first part in a series later on, but for now, here it goes.

Derek isn’t breathing.

Shit.

_Shit, shit, shit.  Derek isn't breathing._

Stiles’ thoughts are running away from him in a course that's frighteningly familiar.  A panic attack.  Derek Hale isn't breathing and Stiles is about to have a panic attack.

_Get a hold of yourself, Stilinski.  Just think...check breathing, check pulse..._

Stiles' ear is pressed near Derek's mouth but there's no tickle of airflow.  His long, pale fingers move to Derek's neck, near the angle of his jaw, but no bounding pulse leaps up at his touch.

_Shit._

Stiles doesn't even realize he's sworn aloud until Allison nearly gasps, blurts out: "No pulse?"

"Shit," Stiles mutters. "No, there's no pulse.  And he's not breathing.  Oh god..."

Again, he's about to lose it, about to freak the fuck out.

 _No, no, you can't do that.  You can't freak out.  Just keep it together, for Allison's sake.  You're not going to save anyone by having a panic attack,_ he tells himself.

Allison is pressed close, leaned over Derek as well, her hands hovering, looking for something to do.

 _Okay, no pulse. Now I've got to start chest compressions_ , Stiles’ brain registers.

He’s been taught first aid, CPR, and so he coaches himself through it with another string of profanities and a mumbled explanation to no one in particular.  He starts the chest compressions, knitting his hands together and placing them over Derek's solid chest.  He's wearing a white t-shirt under his leather jacket, but Stiles' hands still look pale against the fabric.  He wills them not to shake as he straightens up, trying to get more leverage, put more force behind the movement.  He counts in his head, thinking about how the guidelines for CPR changed a few years back: chest compressions first, that's the most important thing.  Get the heart pumping, the blood flowing.

"Call Deaton," Stiles tells Allison, nodding toward his phone where it lies on the pavement.  Normally, it'd be "call 911," but Stiles is hoping that the Alpha will recover quickly.  He has to.  He's Derek Hale.

"Come on, come on..." Stiles mutters as he continues the chest compressions, pushing down forcefully, almost angrily.

"Come on, Derek..."

Allison stands, Stiles' cell phone pressed to her ear.  And then it's as if a light goes off in her head, though, and she's running toward her car before Stiles can even ask.

"Come on..." he pleads, "Dude, you've _got_ to breathe..." Stiles says as if Derek is just being stubborn. He's reminded of the night he almost had to saw Derek's arm off, after the werewolf had been hit with a poisoned bullet.  He'd looked sickly then, weak, but he still managed to terrify Stiles.  But Stiles didn't really know him then.  Scott had arrived just in time, and so Stiles had been spared chopping off the dude's arm and being plagued forever with gruesome nightmares.  Derek had still passed out, and Stiles wonders if punching him in the face _this_ time would help.

Stiles goes through the thirty chest compressions, his mind ticking of all the steps he had to memorize in order to get his certification.

_Okay, check pulse again._

_Shit, no pulse._

Looks like he's going to have to breathe for Derek.

"You can't do anything the easy way, can you?" Stiles asks the unconscious man, his hands coming to rest on either side of Derek's face.

They'd been in the woods, Scott and Isaac off guarding the perimeter while Stiles and Allison stayed put near the main road to Beacon Hills Preserve.  Stiles had been trying to lighten the mood, take Allison's mind off worrying about Scott for one second, when Derek had slipped through the trees, a look Stiles could only describe as panic written all over his face.

And that's when the lightning struck.

He tilts Derek's head back, chin thrust forward just as he'd been taught in CPR training during health class in the ninth grade. Of course the dummies they'd practiced on were a far cry from performing CPR on a real person, especially when that person just so happened to be Derek Hale.

Stiles fits his mouth around Derek's and blows in two deep breaths. He knows he's supposed to watch Derek's chest, see if it rises, indicating that the air went in, but he can't stop staring at Derek's face, his features slack, his eyelashes dark against his pale skin. The alpha's stubble is scratchy under Stiles' fingers.

"Dude, I just gave you mouth to mouth.  You owe me BIG time, so wake the fuck up!" Stiles swears when Derek's eyes fail to flutter open.  He sighs and starts another round of chest compressions.

And then Allison is back, carrying with her a small case of some sort. It's red and Stiles is momentarily distracted from his resuscitation efforts when she unzips it hurriedly.

"Deaton’s on his way,” Allison announces as she rushes up to Stiles. 

“And I forgot, my dad put one of these in my car." She adds, showing him the case. "Of course I thought he was crazy."

It's an AED - automatic electronic defibrillator, Stiles realizes.  One of the little easy-to-use machines that is pretty much foolproof.  The stickers have bright pictures for proper placement, and when Allison clicks the on button, a voice calls out simple instructions.  Stiles grunts as he struggles with Derek's shirt, lifting it up just enough so that Allison can reach over and stick on the pads. Her hands are shaking worse than his, and so Stiles wraps his fingers around hers, gently, and she looks at him with those deep brown eyes so filled with worry and panic that he wishes Scott were here, for half a second, to calm her down.  She seems to shake less after he lifts his hands, though, and she smoothes the defibrillator pads against Derek's bare chest.

And six months ago, a year ago, there's no way in hell Allison Argent would be out here trying to restart Derek Hale's heart.  But things have changed, and Derek's saved Chris Argent's life half a dozen times now, and Allison’s even more.  Mostly it involved the nefarious alpha pack, and so Derek and the Argents have formed something of an alliance, Allison hanging around more and more because of Scott.

Stiles tries not to think about Derek biting Allison's mother, and the shit storm that followed.

He nearly jumps when the machine instructs them to stand back, and he panics for a moment over the whole idea of shocking a man who just got struck by lightning.

Derek Hale is not a lucky guy.

But what can it hurt really? He's not breathing, has no pulse – though he is lying there on the side of the road like he simply fell asleep and not at all like a billion volts of electricity just went through his body.

And aren't people supposed to achieve lift off when they get struck by lightning? Wake up with singed clothes and missing their shoes? Of course all that happened to Derek after the white-hot bolt went through his skull was that he took three solid steps toward Stiles, and then collapsed.  It figures.  And Stiles is fairly certain – no, make that 99.9% certain – that that was no ordinary bolt of lightning.

Allison moves to push the button that will deliver the shock, but Stiles beats her to it.  For some reason it seems more appropriate if he's the one to do it.

Derek's body doesn't even flinch, and Stiles suddenly wonders if a defibrillator will even work on a werewolf.  But Derek's been tortured before – shocked – so it must have some effect.

And then Stiles is back on his knees and crouched over Derek Hale's prone form before his brain has time to catch up.  His right hand is feeling for a pulse while his left hand cradles Derek's head.

"Come on, come on..." He mutters, waiting.

And then there it is, a subtle flutter under his fingers.  His breath catches in his throat.

It's not a normal pulse, but it's a pulse.  And for a second he believes they actually have a chance.  Maybe he _does_ need to punch Derek now.

Allison's been saying something, but it takes him a moment to realize it.  She repeats herself.

"The machine, it says to shock him again..."

Sure enough the little display on the AED shows an erratic waveform, and the electronic voice says, "stand clear and deliver shock."

So Stiles stands again, backing away from Derek, but this time he doesn't feel the rising panic.  Deaton's on his way and even if Derek doesn't fully recover right there on the side of the road, Stiles is hopeful – at least – that he _will_ recover. The dude got struck by lightning – supernatural lightning no less – and thanks to Stiles' awesome resuscitation skills and, okay, Allison's AED too, Derek has a pulse!  Stiles definitely counts that as a win. 

And this makes _how many_ times that he’s saved Derek’s ass?  When they finally get out of this mess, Stiles is _definitely_ rewarding himself with a werewolf-free weekend.

He bends down to push the button again, and the electronic voice calls out "shock delivered."  Allison is standing so close, clutching at the sleeve of his hoodie, her eyes staring anxiously at Derek's features.

It's so subtle that Stiles nearly misses it, but Derek's chest _moves_ – in and then out – as he releases a breath. The AED display beeps out a reassuring pattern and Stiles feels a wave of relief wash over him.

And he thinks it's not like in the movies or television at all, how the person wakes all of a sudden, gasping for breath.

Derek is breathing, and then he stirs quietly, his dark lashes fluttering open, green eyes unfocused, lips parted.  And of course he tries to sit up, and groans.

But Stiles is so elated that he kneels down beside the alpha wolf and lets out a triumphant whoop, fist pumps the air.

Derek's gaze settles on Stiles, his eyes still heavy-lidded. And Stiles doesn't care, he just restarted someone's heart! So he grabs a hold of Derek Sourwolf Hale's face and plants a huge kiss right on his mouth. It’s animated – cartoonish, really – but Stiles doesn’t care.  He’s so excited, so amped up on adrenaline from the whole ordeal that he’d have kissed anyone in that situation – Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Erica, Boyd – well, probably not Boyd, or Jackson, or Peter…

He pulls away after a few short seconds, a loud, wet smacking noise jarring the silence that had settled around them.  He laughs, almost manically, and turns to Allison – she’s pretty much collapsed on the ground near Derek – and raises his hands to grab her and kiss her as well.  Screw Scott – he wasn’t there, he didn’t help restart Derek’s heart.  But Allison puts her hands on Stiles’ chest and holds him back.

“Stiles…” she warns with a nervous laugh, her eyes going wide.

“Ok, ok…” He shrugs, then turns his attention back to the prone werewolf.                 

And Derek looks quite recovered for someone who just got struck by fucking lightning, someone whose heart – literally – stopped beating.  Fucking werewolf healing…

“What?!” Stiles all but yells when Derek cocks one dark eyebrow in his direction, the alpha wearing that angry, constipated look that Stiles has come to know all too well.

“What the hell was _that_?” Stiles asks, arms flailing as he stands and takes a step back. He doesn’t actually expect an answer, though he’d like one.

Derek stands – rather shakily – and Stiles winces when the werewolf rips the adhesive AED pads off his chest.  Allison quickly zips the machine back into its case while Derek rearranges his shirt.  And Stiles is just standing there, all the adrenaline from the past fifteen minutes still coursing through him, nowhere to go now that there’s nothing to _do_.

Derek pushes past him, a little too close – they are in the _Preserve_ , for God’s sake, there’s plenty of room – and Stiles thinks for a moment that the alpha is going to threaten him, lunge at him, do _something…_

But no, he just walks right past both teenagers, and Stiles stares at the back of his head, mouth agape.

“Oh. My. God, dude…” Stiles chalks it up to nerves, the way he yells at the back of Derek’s head.  “You almost _died_ , and we saved your life…”

Derek stops, maybe twenty paces ahead, and turns to look back at Stiles.  Allison is standing behind Stiles, near his right shoulder, and he swears he can feel her tense.

“What?” Stiles manages in a tone of exasperation.  “A ‘thank you’ would be nice…” He explains, folding his arms across his chest so he doesn’t start shaking.

And Derek just stares back at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, looking far too superior for someone who was near death only minutes before.  But then his features relax for half a second and he nods.

“Thank you,” Derek grunts, and Stiles clenches his jaw shut to avoid it hitting the ground.

“Now come on,” Derek orders, jerking his hand toward the entrance to the preserve.  “You need to get out of here, I don’t know how many there are…”

“Whoa, there are multiple…?” Stiles asks.  “What exactly are we dealing with?  Demons, witches, a group of disgruntled fulminologists…?”

“ _Now_ , Stiles…” Derek snaps, motioning with his head for them to move, his eyes flitting briefly to Allison.

But Stiles is already striding toward Derek, his long legs quickly closing the distance between them.  Allison rushes to catch up, clutching the AED tightly to her chest with one hand, her crossbow in the other. 

“So really, what are we dealing with?” Stiles asks again when he comes up beside Derek. His tone is serious, but he can’t help the grin that spreads across his features.  They walk out of the preserve together, Allison not far behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t ever do that again,” Derek seethes. 
> 
> Or what? Stiles thinks. Derek is all bark – well, mostly bark. Very little bite.
> 
> “What?” Stiles replies before he can stop himself. “Save your life…? Yeah, sure, next time I’ll just let you die…”
> 
> Stiles knows that that’s not what Derek means, at all, but he’d rather not talk about the kiss. He would have been fine if Derek had never mentioned it, ever again. There’s really no need for the grumpy alpha to threaten him, as Stiles has absolutely no plans to kiss him again, not anytime in the foreseeable future. Nope, not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this is what happens when a one-shot gets out of control and wants to become a multi-chapter fic. I am almost done with chapter 3, so it should be up sometime soon!

“Don’t _ever_ do that again,” Derek seethes.  

_Or what?_   Stiles thinks.  Derek is all bark – well, _mostly_ bark.  Very little bite. 

They‘re in the preserve parking lot, not fifty feet from Stiles’ jeep and Allison’s car, and Derek Hale has his right hand clenched into a fist, his index finger unfurled and pressing into Stiles’ chest.  Stiles lifts his arms, palms out, half in surrender and half in mock confusion, as if he has _no_ clue why Derek is pissed. 

“What?” Stiles replies before he can stop himself.  “Save your _life_ …?  Yeah, sure, next time I’ll just let you die…” 

Stiles knows that that’s not what Derek means, _at all_ , but he’d rather _not_ talk about the kiss.  He would have been _fine_ if Derek had never mentioned it, ever again.  There’s really no need for the grumpy alpha to threaten him, as Stiles has absolutely _no_ plans to kiss him again, not anytime in the foreseeable future.  Nope, not at all. 

But Derek is standing close, like ridiculously close, his finger still digging into Stiles’ chest, his eyes narrowing and his mouth curving down into even more of a scowl as he leans in.  If this is supposed to be intimidating, Stiles muses, it is _not_ working. 

Stiles can feel Derek’s hot breath on his face, and he resists the urge to glance down at the alpha’s mouth.  But then Derek’s gaze flicks down to Stiles’ lips, lingers there, and Stiles can’t help where his own eyes wander. 

It’s Derek’s fault, really.  He’s the one who made a big deal out of it. 

As if sensing Stiles’ train of thought, Derek takes a step back, lowers his hand, but continues to stare.  Stiles rubs the spot where Derek’s finger had been jabbed into his sternum, and then turns to Allison.  She is standing a few feet back, quirking an eyebrow in Stiles’ direction as if to say, “you brought this upon yourself.”  But there’s a hint of a smile on her features as well, and Stiles is glad _someone_ sees the humor of the situation.

 It’s not like Derek Hale was just struck by lightning or anything. 

Allison is throwing the AED into the backseat of her car when Scott and Isaac come running up, looking worried and out of breath. 

“You guys all right?” Scott asks Stiles and Allison.  Allison nods, looking relieved that Scott is there, and she steps toward him, leans into his side.  

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, then catches the death glare that Derek is giving him.  Well, it’s more like a ‘you’re an idiot’ glare. 

“Oh yeah, we’re all _fine_ ,” Stiles quips.  “You know, aside from the fact that Derek was struck by _lightning_.  Supernatural light – “ 

“What…?” Scott whips his head around to stare at Derek who just looks rather annoyed. 

“Deaton is on his way,” Allison says, one hand on Scott’s arm. 

“Actually, I’m _here_ ,” Deaton’s soft voice carries across the asphalt and Stiles nearly jumps.  The dude is like seriously freaky, and sometimes he gives Stiles the creeps.  But he’s also a useful asset – at least once he’d decided to reveal his role in the Hale saga. 

Derek and the other wolves don’t look surprised, at all, and Stiles figures that the veterinarian/werewolf advisor had only snuck up on the two humans present.  The others probably smelled him from a mile away, even in his car. 

“So what are we dealing with?” Stiles asks for what he feels like is the hundredth time that night. And then all eyes are on him, but hey, he has a right to know. 

“Hunters,” Deaton confesses, and Stiles sees Allison’s eyes grow wide at the word.  Scott tenses, and Derek turns his gaze toward Allison.  But she looks just as shocked as everyone else. 

“Hunters?” Stiles ask incredulously.  “Hunters who can control _lightning_?!” 

“Yes – “ Deaton says at the same time Allison speaks up. 

“It’s not us, not anyone we know…” She explains, and Stiles doesn’t have werewolf hearing to listen for an increase in heart rate, but he knows she isn’t lying.  The others seem to sense that as well. 

“No, it’s not the Argents,” Deaton concedes.  “I can explain what I know when we get somewhere a little safer…” He pauses, looking up at the sky.  Everyone else follows his gaze, and Stiles suddenly wonders why they are all standing out in the open like that, in the middle of a tree-less parking lot when Derek just got struck by lightning. 

Scott hops in the car with Allison, and so does Isaac.  They’d agreed to head to the vet clinic, and so Stiles starts toward his jeep.  Derek is right behind Deaton, but then turns to Stiles and scowls. 

“Now what?” Stiles asks, throwing up his arms in exasperation.  “’Go home, Stiles’ is that what you’re going to say? Because I just saved your life and – “ 

“ _Stiles_ …” Derek warns, and Stiles stops talking but doesn’t bother to close his mouth.  The alpha doesn’t say another word, but stalks towards the jeep, plops himself into the passenger seat, then sends Stiles a look that says, “hurry up.” 

Stiles just shakes his head and climbs into his jeep. 

“These hunters are old, and unique,” Deaton explains back at the vet clinic.  Derek, Scott, and Isaac are standing near him, their arms folded across their chests, while Stiles and Allison hang back just a bit. 

“I wasn’t sure which family it was until the lightning – “ 

“Whoa, dude, you really _did_ get struck by lightning?” Scott cuts Deaton off, turning toward Derek.  Derek just gives him a look.  “Oh, sorry…” Scott turns to the vet and apologizes when he realizes he spoke over Deaton. 

“As I was saying,” Deaton starts again, “this family of hunters is very old and have acquired some very specialized _techniques_ through the years…”

 “ _Techniques_? Like _magic_?” Stiles offers. 

“You could say that,” Deaton replies, as vague as ever.  “There are members of their family who have a gift – the gift of controlling the elements…” 

“Oh, like _Avatar_!” Stiles interjects, thinking about the cartoon he loved watching just a few years back.  He totally wished he could have been a bender.  He’d have made a badass airbender like Aang.  

He’s getting some blank looks, though. 

“Oh, not the James Cameron, blue aliens, Dances With Wolves on a different planet _Avatar_ ,” he explains.  “Like _Avatar: the Last Airbender_.  You know, controlling earth, air, fire water…” 

“Oh…” Scott says after a moment, as if a light bulb just went off in his head.  He is grinning goofily, and Stiles knows his best friend watched the show as well. 

“Yes, Stiles,” Deaton replies. “They can control the four elements, hence the lightning…” 

Stiles thinks back to the past few weeks, all of the weird weather phenomena that have been going on.  He hadn’t connected it to the packs’ heightened awareness of danger, their sense that a threat was drawing nearer to Beacon Hills, but now he sees how the two are related. 

“So why aren’t they raining hail down on us now or something…?” Stiles asks.  “Or fire balls…” 

“My guess is that they have only one or two individuals who can actually control the elements,” Deaton answers.  Everyone else seems interested enough.  At least more interested in what Deaton has to say than they are annoyed at Stiles’ questions. 

“This type of magic – if you’d like to call it that,” Deaton continues, “is rather taxing on the user.  We’d be in a lot more trouble if there were more of them...”

 “So what do we do?” Scott asks, looking concernedly between Allison and Deaton. 

“I can ask my dad…” Allison suggests, her voice soft.  “See if he can find out more about them.  He hasn’t said anything about any new hunters in the area…” 

And Stiles knows from the past year that hunters are supposed to follow a code, but that sometimes they don’t.  Case in point – Kate Argent.  And he knows that there was some bad blood between her and Derek – beside the fact that she pretty much killed his entire family, except for Peter and Laura.  Stiles is smart, can put two and two together.  And even though the thought of Kate seducing a sixteen-year-old Derek Hale, then burning his family’s house to the ground makes him sick, Stiles suspects it’s true.  Makes sense with all the guilt Derek carries on his shoulders, why he punishes himself by staying in that burned out shell of a house.  Why he tolerates Peter, even though he killed Laura.  

_Oh great, another bunch of hunters who don’t follow the code…_  

“But what do they want?” Stiles asks the question that he knows is on everyone’s mind.  “Why are they here?  No one has mauled any innocent humans lately, have they…?” Stiles half-jokes, looking at Scott and Isaac, then Derek. 

Derek just glares at him. 

“No…” Isaac answers. “We’ve all been on a pretty tight leash, even Peter.” Isaac quirks his mouth up into a shy smile and then Stiles realizes it’s a joke. He laughs loudly, then Scott follows suite.  

Erica and Boyd show up then, and Deaton fills them in on the crucial details.  They look wary, but Derek gives them a solemn nod and they seem to relax. 

“So any one of us could be struck down by lightning, at any time?” Erica asks bitterly. 

“Or various other weather-related phenomena – tornados, tsunami, great balls of fire…” Stiles offers, laughing internally at his own sense of humor.  No one else thinks he’s funny, though.  

Erica’s glare is almost as frightening as Derek’s. 

Deaton suggests that the werewolves find somewhere to take shelter other than the partially renovated Hale house.  Of course Derek hates that idea, wants to go on immediate patrol or stake out or whatever werewolves do when they’re looking for something.  Allison leaves with Scott, promising to talk to her dad.  Stiles already knows what he’s going to do. 

He’s going to go home, take a shower, and Google the shit out of werewolf hunters with supernatural abilities.

 “I still don’t get what they want…” He says to the group – minus Scott and Allison, of course. 

“They want to _kill_ us.” Derek finally speaks up, enunciating each word with painful precision as if explaining some complicated thing to a child.  Stiles takes offense at that. 

“I know, I know. _Hunters_ …” Stiles replies, gesturing awkwardly with his hands.  “But, I mean, no humans have died in _a while_ , so no harm, no foul, right?”

Erica smirks at him, and Derek just lets out an exasperated sigh, a constipated look on his face. 

Stiles knows he’s not much help when it comes to physical force, but he does see himself as the brains of the operation more often than not.  He can ask questions, get to the bottom of things.  Tease out leads that no one else bothered to notice or examine.  But sometimes he just wishes there were more he could do, besides just sprinkling out mountain ash whenever it’s called for. 

“Ha,” he lets out a short laugh.  “Too bad mountain ash won’t work on hunters…” Stiles mutters. 

Of course the werewolves catch what he says, give him pointed looks.  But then Stiles sees it, something that passes across Derek’s face.  It’s almost unreadable, but Stiles has been around the alpha long enough to recognize certain expressions.  It’s a thoughtful expression, like the wolf just realized something.  Whatever it is, Derek doesn’t share it. 

Stiles goes home and showers, resists the urge to crawl into bed and pass out, and instead sits at his desk, waits for his laptop to load. 

His clock is blinking 2:30 am and the light from his computer screen is making his eyes ache when Stiles finally calls it quits.  His Adderall wore off hours ago, and with the night he’s had, he should have just gone to sleep as soon as he got home.  So far, his searches have yielded nothing.  Nothing apart from references to _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ , meditation techniques, and articles claiming that various countries can actually control the weather, all of which is not particularly useful.  Of course this group of hunters probably _wouldn’t_ have like a website or anything, or even a Facebook group for that matter. 

He texts Scott to see if Allison was able to dig up any dirt from her father before his face hits his pillow and he is out. 

“They want _me_?!” Stiles is blinking back and forth between Deaton and Derek, unsure of what he just heard. 

“So it seems…” Deaton replies calmly, his hands folded thoughtfully. 

“But I’m not a werewolf!  I’m just a human…” Stiles stutters. 

“It’s true they are hunters, but they aren’t looking for a werewolf…” Deaton responds and yep, dude is creepy.  

“They’ve only attacked us when we’ve been near _you_ ,” Derek offers, in a slightly less patronizing tone than usual.  Stiles balks at that, his mouth slack, but his mind is putting two and two together.  Surely it’s only a coincidence… 

First Derek and the lightning.  Then Erica with the torrential downpour.  Boyd and Isaac with – literally – balls of fire, seemingly hurled out of nowhere, Hunger Games style. 

And it’s true, Stiles had been present on all three occasions.  But he just attributed that to bad luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  But it _was_ odd that the pack never seemed to get attacked when he _wasn’t_ there.  Maybe it just meant he spent _way_ too much time with them these days… 

“Ok, but what do they want with _me_?” Stiles asks, his arms crossed over his chest, his hips leaning on the metal exam table in the back of the vet clinic. 

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Deaton explains, looking at Stiles as if he’s some specimen to be examined. 

“What you said that first night,” Derek starts. “After the lightning – about the mountain ash – made me think…” 

Stiles wants to make some retort, say how surprised he is that Derek’s werewolf brain _can_ actually think, but he keeps it to himself.  He’s become less and less of a jerk over the past year and he’s quite proud of himself, sometimes. 

“What?” He asks instead when Derek pauses. 

“Derek reminded me about the incident with the mountain ash, when you didn’t have enough to complete the circle…” Deaton says. 

Stiles can remember that night.  He can remember coming up short, how he had simply imagined the line being complete and it had worked.  But what did that have to do with these weird, element-controlling hunters? 

“I wasn’t sure then, but now that this has happened, it’s confirmed it.” Deaton continues.  What, exactly, it has confirmed, Stiles has no clue.  He waits for Deaton to go on. 

“They want you for your abilities, Stiles.” The older man tells him. 

“My _what_?!” Stiles replies, arms and hands and fingers flailing.  No one has ever wanted him for his abilities, except maybe to do some internet research or help with passing chemistry.  He sucks at lacrosse most of the time, still has to use his inhaler on occasion, and he definitely doesn’t have any superpowers. 

“Not anyone could have closed that line of mountain ash, Stiles,” Deaton reasons with him.  “I think you are capable of much more than you give yourself credit for…” 

_Holy shit, I’m magic,_ Stiles thinks.  But it doesn’t make any sense.  He’s never been able to _do_ anything like levitate pencils or coins, or speak with snakes, or control the weather. 

The day his mom died, there was a sudden flash flood, and he and the Sheriff had been forced to sit tight in the hospital for hours.  The whole world had turned dark in the blink of an eye, rain pelting the earth.  At fourteen, Stiles had just thought it rather suiting and horrible at the same time.  He didn’t want to be stuck in the hospital, where his mom had suffered for months and months. 

He had just thought it was the heavens opening up, all of nature morning for his mom.  But maybe he’d had more to do with it than he’d realized… 

“So they want _me_ …” Stiles sounds out the words like they’re some foreign tongue.  He still can’t quite believe it.  If he’s magic and it’s taking over seventeen years for him to realize it, he’s wasted an awful lot of time. 

“That’s what we believe,” Deaton replies.  Derek is looking rather bored, like Stiles is taking _way_ too long to understand everything.

 “But why haven’t they just come to my house, abducted me while I was asleep or something…?” Stiles argues and _holy shit, that’s a scary thought_.  _Fuck_. 

They have only seen the hunters two out of the three times they’ve attacked, always from a distance, always too far away to risk chasing after.  There’s at least five of them, but only one has the ability to control the elements.  A mage, sorcerer, wizard, or whatever the fuck they want to call him.  

“They know you’re part of the pack,” Derek says and Stiles feels his heart stutter at the implication of those words.  There’s a warm feeling in his gut, and he guesses he knows it’s true, has been true for a while now, that he’s part of the pack.  But to hear it said aloud, and by Derek no less…

 “They only have one hunter with abilities,” Deaton explains.  “It’s hereditary, I think, but it’s dying out.  They are trying to find others to bring into their group, and they’ll kill the entire pack just to get to you, Stiles.” 

“Oh jeeze…” is all Stiles can manage.  He doesn’t want Scott or Isaac or Erica or Boyd or Derek attacked for _his_ sake.  But if Deaton’s right, it’s already happened three times.  They’ve all healed, but it’s been nerve-wracking, anxiety-provoking.  Stiles has had three panic attacks in the past two weeks. 

“We have to somehow draw them out,” Stiles says at the next pack meeting.  They don’t call them “pack meetings” aloud, it’s just when they all end up at the same place at the same time, discuss whatever threat they’re under that week. 

They are sitting around Stiles’ living room and even Peter is present, that creepy half-smile plastered on his face.  The Sheriff is working the night shift, and ever since Deaton and Derek figured out that Stiles was the main target, he’s had a werewolf on guard at his house every night.  Stiles doesn’t mind really.  When it was Scott’s turn, they just played video games and ate way too much popcorn.  With Erica, she poked around his room while he stood by nervously until he suggested they go downstairs and watch _Kill Bill_.  Boyd was quiet, preferring to stalk the perimeter every hour.  And Isaac, Isaac was like a little lost puppy, unsure of himself.  Stiles ordered pizza that night, and Scott ended up joining them for a while before he went to hang out with Allison. 

When it had been Derek’s turn, he had done much the same as Boyd, patrolling the perimeter for most of the night.  The rest of the time, however, he spent seated in the corner of Stiles’ room, reading.  Stiles worked on his English homework at his desk, and was tempted to turn around every so often to make sure Derek was still there, he was so quiet. 

 “We have to get them all together – “ Stiles continues with his plan. 

“And then what?” Peter asks, cutting him off. 

“We attack,” Derek finishes for Stiles, looking pointedly at his uncle. 

“And you think that is the _best_ plan?” Peter gives Derek a measured look.

 “They have already attacked us, _three_ times,” Derek nearly growls, his posture becoming rigid.  He is standing by the couch since he had refused to sit down. 

“Yes, because of Stiles,” Peter replies.  “So why not give them what they want?” 

Derek looks as if he is about to rip Peter’s throat out – again – and the rest of the gang doesn’t look too happy either. 

“Wait, wait,” Stiles says, reaches out to catch the sleeve of Derek’s leather jacket. Derek glances down where Stiles’ fingers are, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“He’s got a point,” Stiles explains.  “If they want me, then why not make them think you’re handing me over?” 

“That’s not how pack works…” Derek replies, and Stiles slips his fingers away from the alpha’s arm. There it is, that little fluttering again. 

It takes a whole lot of arguing, a whole lot of reasoning, but finally they agree on a plan.  No one is keen on putting Stiles in harm’s way – except maybe Peter – but if the hunters want him _that bad_ , they won’t attack _him_. 

Unless they’ve gotten the hunters’ motive _completely_ wrong.  And then they’re all screwed. 

Under Deaton’s tutelage, Stiles has worked on trying to convince himself that he _is_ magic.  Not much has happened over the past two weeks, and it’s mostly frustrated Stiles.  It’s definitely _not_ like all those fantasy movies and TV shows make it seem, where he can just get super emotional and start throwing books around the room or turning the sky dark.  If that were the case, then he’d have conjured up a tornado or worse with every panic attack.  The day his mother died – the flood – he’d been numb at that point, his world a void. 

No, it seems to be more attuned to what he is thinking.  Like with the mountain ash, imagining the line was complete.  But the problem is knowing _what_ to try and imagine.  He’s managed to start a few brief rain showers, but it’s sporadic.  Almost sporadic enough to be chance, rather than his own doing.  But Deaton’s still convinced. 

They are out in the preserve, trying to parley with the hunters, when it happens. 

Everything seemed to be going fine, they were negotiating terms – the hunters could have Stiles if they promised to leave Beacon Hills and never return.  The Argents and a few of their hunter friends were standing on the periphery, on the side of the werewolves.  That hadn’t surprised the other group of hunters, really.  But Stiles should have known it seemed too easy. 

Derek is standing near their leader when all hell breaks loose. 

Two men knock Stiles on his side, kick him for good measure, before they grab him up, carrying him off through the trees.  He can hear the sounds of a fight – fierce growls and flesh tearing and screams of pain – behind him as he’s being carried off.  He can feel a sharp, stabbing pain in his side and he can barely breathe.  All in all, he’s rather pathetic, and he’s too stunned to fight back. 

The men finally stop for a moment, pushing Stiles roughly to the ground.  They are panting hard, and Stiles makes an attempt to stand, his legs feeling rather wobbly.  One of the men, grabs his arm, but Stiles throws his hands up in surrender. 

“I’m not going to run off, _god_ , just let me fucking walk…” Stiles manages.  It still hurts to breathe, but otherwise, he’s ok.  

The men nod to each other, then one lifts walkie talkie to his mouth and tries to signal the others.  Stiles has to hold back a grin when the man gets no reply. 

They shove at him, push him toward the edge of the preserve and Stiles walks ahead, taking his time and praying that one of the wolves will catch up with them.  The men are armed with pistols and sharp knives – probably laced with wolfsbane – and Stiles wonders if it’s worth fighting back.  Hopefully they wouldn’t shoot him, but they would do some damage.  His ribs can attest to that. 

They’ve made it to a clearing when Stiles decides to act.  He’s played lacrosse enough – or practiced enough, at least – to know how to spin out of someone’s grasp, dodge bodily harm.  He moves as fast as he can, spinning around the smaller of the two men, grabbing his knife in the process.  The man draws his pistol but the other hunter has his knife drawn. 

The bigger man barrels forward and Stiles just isn’t fast enough, not when his ribs are probably broken. He feels a searing pain in his side from the man’s knife, feels the wet heat of blood as it spills down his hip. 

Stiles slashes blindly before he collapses and he must make contact because the men are cursing.  The grass is cool on his skin. 

And then there is only pain, blinding pain as the two men wail on him again, kicking his side as he tries to curl in on himself, tries to protect his torso. 

He must lose consciousness for a moment because when he manages to peer around, the two men are gone.  There are bloody streaks on the ground, and Stiles knows it’s not all his.  Two wide, red stripes lead away from where he’s lying.  

In the distance he can hear screams, and growling. 

Stiles rolls onto his back, his hand grabbing his side. 

_And this, this is how I die…_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it wasn't disgruntled fulminologists...and poor Stiles!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kiss me…” Stiles croaks, gripping the fabric of Derek’s shirt. Stiles thinks about how it really is his fault. The whole plan had been his idea, and now he’s dying. 
> 
> “What?” Derek looks at Stiles’ face, then down to where Stiles is attempting to tug Derek closer. 
> 
> “Kiss. Me.” Stiles says, clearer this time, staring into those pale green eyes. 
> 
> “Stiles, I don’t – “ Derek starts to protest. 
> 
> “I’m dying,” Stiles groans, his breath becoming more labored with each word. “The plan got all fucked up, and now I’m dying. So just kiss me…” He practically begs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now Derek gets to save Stiles! Oh, and there's more kissing. And I promise, it won't just be when one of them is near death. Oh and more Magic!Stiles.
> 
> And I have no beta, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes.

“Oh god…” Stiles manages, pulling his hand away from his side.  His fingers crowd his vision, covered in blood, and he _hurts_. _So bad._

 So he’s dying – he _has_ to be, everything hurts _so much_ – and he’s alone.  The soft screams have stopped, and so has the growling.  But hopefully that means someone is near – Scott or Erica or Boyd or Derek.  Someone will smell him bleeding out in that fucking awful clearing and find him. 

He tries to push himself up onto his elbows but all he can do is moan in pain.  His whole body hurts.  It hurts to breathe, to think, even, and that’s how he knows he’s dying. 

His breaths are coming out short and staccato, and if he weren’t injured, he’d think he was having a panic attack. 

He moans again, long and unapologetic and thinks that if no one comes for him, they’ll probably find his body – days, if not weeks later – all picked over by scavengers, how they’ll probably have to have a closed-casket funeral because his body will be so bloated and unrecognizable and – 

“Stiles!” He hears his name.  It’s more a declaration than a “are you there?” and he’s glad because there’s no way he can yell in response. 

Of course it’s Derek who finds him, all handsome and brooding and not a scratch on him from the fight with the hunters.  Stiles knows it’s bad when he sees the look on Derek’s face, his eyes wide, his mouth slack with panic.  There’s no eyebrows of doom, no ‘you’re an idiot, Stiles’ scowl.  There’s just a whole lot of raw emotion, and Stiles would laugh, only he knows it would hurt like a bitch. 

Stiles winces when Derek touches his ribs, thinks they’re definitely broken.  He moves Stiles’ hand away from the gaping wound and even _that_ hurts.  Then he’s checking Stiles’ chest, his shoulders and arms, hands working their way lightly over Stiles’ body, over his narrow hips and legs, checking for any other serious injuries. 

“It’s bad, huh…?” Stiles manages, and Derek’s gaze meets his.  The alpha clenches his jaw and sets his mouth into a neutral line – but it’s too late.  Stiles has seen the worry, knows that if it weren’t serious, Derek would be yelling at him for convincing them to put him in the middle of the fight, supernatural powers or not. 

“Stiles, I need to move you,” is all Derek says, and Stiles’ line of sight is crowded out by the werewolf moving toward him, his arms sliding up underneath Stiles’ wrecked body. 

“No…No!” Stiles spits out, and _god_ it hurts.  Derek just needs to leave him in peace to die, _then_ he can drag Stiles’ body back for them to bury. When Stiles will no longer be there to feel how _fucking awful_ this is. 

Why couldn’t his magical powers be somehow related to supernatural healing…? 

He manages to raise his hands, attempt to push Derek away.  He makes contact with Derek’s ridiculously solid chest and the werewolf just stares at him, glances from Stiles’ face down to where his hands are.

 Derek moves Stiles’ hands away with ease, and Stiles knows he must look _so_ pathetic, _so_ feeble.  But he’s dying, so… 

Stiles’ eyes fly open wide when he feels Derek push on the gaping slash in his side, because _god, it hurts_. 

“I’m putting pressure on it, Stiles, just try to relax…” Derek mutters when he sees what must be an ugly grimace on Stiles’ face.  He really doesn’t understand why the alpha is even trying, really.  There’s so much blood, and yeah, not all of it is his, per se, but Stiles knows that most of it probably is, and humans can’t really live without blood. 

He doesn’t even want to think of what happened to those two hunters.  The two men that had Stiles and beat him to a pulp.

Derek is murmuring something else, probably in an attempt to comfort him, but Stiles can’t make it out.  Make it out.  Make…out… 

 _Haha, make out_. Stiles is laughing, if only in his head, and it’s really sad because here he is dying in such an inglorious manner and he’s never even made out with anyone.  He’s going to die a virgin – _and_ a make-out virgin at that.  

He’s a few months shy of eighteen and he’s barely even kissed anyone, let alone gone beyond that… 

And Derek had threatened him, told him not to _ever_ think about kissing him again, but Stiles is dying and that’s _all_ he can think about. 

He’s been mumbling as much this whole time, _aloud_ , and he wonders how much has actually been intelligible.  If it were any other scenario, he’d probably be embarrassed, but Derek doesn’t appear to have understood _half_ of what Stiles just said.  He’s just leaning over him, all handsome and brooding and _so fucking tragic_ as he puts pressure on the gaping wound in Stiles’ side.  Stiles can’t _not_ ask for it, really. 

“Kiss me…” Stiles croaks, gripping the fabric of Derek’s shirt.  Stiles thinks about how it really _is_ his fault.  The whole plan had been his idea, and now he’s dying. 

“What?” Derek looks at Stiles’ face, then down to where Stiles is attempting to tug Derek closer. 

“Kiss. Me.” Stiles says, clearer this time, staring into those pale green eyes. 

“Stiles, I don’t – “ Derek starts to protest. 

“I’m _dying_ ,” Stiles groans, his breath becoming more labored with each word.  “The plan got all fucked up, and now I’m dying.  So just _kiss me_ …” He practically begs. 

If he could, he would explain how he’s never been kissed, as pathetic as it sounds.  Sure, there was his first kiss, back in the fourth grade.  He’d pecked Becky Anderson right on the lips – when he was sure Lydia wasn’t watching, of course.  And of course he’d kissed Derek a few weeks back.  But to admit that no one has ever kissed _him_ …? 

He thinks he hears Derek grumble something about how Stiles isn’t dying, but then the alpha leans in and – _oh, where did the pain go?_  

Stiles feels something warm and wet on the side of his neck and he realizes it’s Derek’s hand, covered in blood.  He’s doing that thing Stiles has seen Scott and Isaac do for injured animals, where they take away some of the pain.  Only it must be stronger when an alpha does it, because Stiles feels like he’s floating, feels tingly all the way down to his toes.  Then Derek sighs, looks like he might regret what he’s about to do, and leans in even closer.

Derek’s lips are surprisingly soft and Stiles can’t help it – really – when he moans into the kiss.  The past few minutes have been complete hell, and now Derek is touching him, leaching away most of the pain and kissing him.

And that’s when Stiles’ brain decides it’s had enough and he blacks out. 

When he wakes – and really, he should be surprised that he wakes up at all when he had been so sure he was dying – he’s in a hospital bed, his dad dozing uncomfortably in a chair to his left. 

The Sheriff startles awake as soon as Stiles begins to move, though. 

“Hey…” Stiles croaks, wincing as he tries to sit up. 

"You scared us all, pretty bad, kid," his dad says after he sits back in the chair, after he hugs Stiles like he's fragile, broken – and hey, Stiles can't feel too bad about it because he _is_ broken. 

"Dad, I'm sorry – “ Stiles starts. He knows he should feel worse about it than he does, but he blames his contented feeling on the wonderful drugs they're giving him, plus the fact that he's _not_ _dead_.

And really he should have _known_ he wasn't dying. He hurt too much, and there was none of that "light at the end of the tunnel," "life flashing before my eyes" type stuff that he'd always heard about in near-death experiences. 

But does that mean he's not going to milk this for all it's worth? _Oh hell no._  

His dad lets out a long sigh and Stiles actually stops himself from saying anything else. His dad knows about the whole werewolf situation, has known for a while now. And he's fought Stiles tooth and nail about his involvement, worried that something like this would happen. 

And it just about kills Stiles that his dad doesn't bring that up. Doesn't rub it in his face or purposefully try to make his son feel guilty. 

And he hadn’t told his dad about the new hunters in town _or_ the fact that they were after him.  He hadn’t mentioned working on developing his supernatural abilities, and it stings.  He wonders what has been explained to the Sheriff while he’s been unconscious. 

"Derek's been here every day," the Sheriff says. "Almost as much as I have..." 

Stiles laughs, but it makes his whole body hurt to do that, so he winces. 

"I _can_ say that you've gotten much better nursing care, when he's been around," the Sheriff tells him in a wry tone. "I don't know if that's because he was once a suspect in a murder investigation...or – “ 

"Or because he's _ridiculously_ good-looking?" Stiles offers, shifting around in bed. He pretends he doesn't notice the way his father raises an eyebrow at that. Or the way his dad crosses his arms over his chest and sits back in the chair, as if waiting for Stiles to tell him something important. 

"You know it was Derek who brought you here," the sheriff tells him. "Carried you here..." 

"I figured," Stiles says, fiddling with the plastic band around his wrist. 

"He told me what happened..." His dad says, and Stiles does look up at him then. "Well, most of what happened..." 

Everybody stops by at some point that evening – Allison and Lydia, Scott, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. Danny. Stiles had been out for nearly two days, and his friends are glad that he's alert and awake. Stiles warns them not to make him laugh, that laughing hurts like a bitch, and so of course they make him laugh even more. 

Mrs. McCall stops by when she's on her shift, offers a little more-than-comforting hand on the Sheriff's shoulder, actually bends down and hugs Stiles. He smiles at Scott's mom and offers his dad the same raised eyebrow expression that he'd given Stiles earlier. 

Nurses come in and out, the doctor checks his wound and Stiles sees the dark line of stitches against his pale skin. Sees the purple, angry bruises on his torso. The doctor tells him they are switching him to oral painkillers, that if everything goes well, Stiles should be discharged tomorrow. 

His dad listens and nods, thanks the doctor before the man leaves. Then a pretty nurse brings Stiles his dinner and a paper cup full of pills. 

He broke quite a few ribs on his right side, lost a lot of blood from his wound. He doesn't know what Derek told them in the ER.  Hit and run, maybe?

They gave him two pints of blood on the first night, but after that his blood counts had gone up, stabilized. He didn't have to have surgery for anything. There's nothing to do for broken ribs except ease the pain and let them heal with time. 

Derek stops by, and it's late. Probably later than actual visiting hours but they've let the Sheriff stay because he's the Sheriff. And Stiles thinks Melissa McCall might have something to do with it as well. They've been watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory on the TV, Stiles actually correcting some of the characters' pronunciation of scientific words, then meandering off onto various tangents while his dad just nods.  That’s when Derek walks in. 

He stops in the doorway, and Stiles isn’t sure if it's because Derek sees that he’s finally awake or for some other reason, but there's a look of raw relief that passes over Derek's features before a neutral expression takes its place. 

The Sheriff tilts his head in greeting before he stands and stretches, moves toward the werewolf. 

"I'm going to grab a soda," the older man says. "Do you want one?" He asks Stiles. 

"No..." Stiles replies, glancing back and forth from his dad to Derek. 

"Derek?" His dad asks, moving past the alpha and through the door. 

"I'm good." Derek replies, the words tight. 

"You'd better get a _diet_ soda!" Stiles yells loudly as his father walks down the hall and _god_ , it hurts to yell. 

Derek takes the Sheriff’s seat and Stiles wonders if this is exactly what's happened for the past two days. 

"Thanks," Stiles says softly. 

"For saving my life, you know..." He adds when Derek doesn't reply. 

Stiles gets discharged the next afternoon, his dad rolling him out to the police cruiser in a wheelchair and everything.

He's glad to be home, glad to be away from hospital food and sick people and dying... 

They send him home with a prescription for antibiotics, pain killers, and muscle relaxants and  Stiles doesn't have to be reminded to take them. His dad takes a few extra days off work, even though Stiles insists that he's ok. 

He's arranging all of the get well cards he's received when Derek lets himself in, sliding up the window and climbing in.  Stiles had managed to raise the window an inch or two even though it hurt _like hell_.  At the time, he told himself it was because the pain meds made him hot and nauseous and he needed to feel the cool breeze. But that's not really why he unlocked the window and pushed it open, hours ago. 

"Hey..." Stiles says, positioning the card from Scott – it's got a picture of a turtle with a bandage on it on the front – near his laptop before turning back to Derek, who is now sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. 

"You should be resting," Derek replies, looking as if he doesn't approve of Stiles being vertical, _at all._  

"Dude, all I've done for the past few days is lay in the bed..." He retorts. Derek just scowls. 

Stiles is just glad Derek isn’t bringing up his idiotic plan – the plan that almost got him killed.  It’s something that will remain unspoken between them until the next big threat arises and Stiles argues that he should be involved.  Once he recovers, he’s definitely going to hone those magical abilities. 

"Okay, okay..." Stiles finally concedes when he arranges the last card – a pink one from Lydia.  She had given him a bright purple stuffed unicorn as well, and it’s currently resting on the bed, right behind Derek. He smirks at the sight of the unicorn and moves – so slowly – to his bed, sitting down next to Derek. 

"Mind passing me that glass of water?" Stiles nods toward the cup that's on his night stand, near Derek. "And my drugs...?" 

He hasn't taken any of the pain medication since lunch and he is starting to hurt again. 

Derek hands him the glass, making sure Stiles has a firm grip on it before he turns back to the prescription bottles. He's reading the labels when Stiles speaks up. 

"You can hand me all of them, I'm due to take my antibiotic as well," Stiles tells him, so Derek places all three bottles in his right hand, watches as Stiles pops the lid on each one – using his right hand since he's holding the glass in his left – and swallows the medicine down with a few mouthfuls of water. Stiles lets out an exaggerated sigh and holds the cup out for Derek to put back on the bedside table – which he does – and then the pill bottles. 

Stiles is telling Derek about the perils of eating hospital food when he feels the powerful painkillers kick in, sending a warm, happy feeling through him.  And dulling some of the pain. 

One of the hardest things has been to breathe normally, with broken ribs. Stiles feels a sharp, stabbing pain whenever he takes a substantial breath, but the nurses and doctors told him not to hold it in, not to guard his muscles or take shallow breaths and end up getting pneumonia. Two months shy of eighteen is _way_ too young to die of pneumonia. Or was it a pneumothorax? Stiles can't remember. 

He _can_ remember the kiss, though. He wishes he'd stayed conscious for more of it, but not really because then he probably _would_ have died.  He wouldn’t have gotten to the hospital in time and he would have died because he was making out with Derek Hale in a field. 

And he remembers the kiss he'd given Derek weeks ago when all this mess with weather-benders had started. At the time, Derek had gone all threatening, had jabbed a finger into Stiles’ sternum and told him to never do that again. 

Suddenly Stiles has the urge to turn the tables, so he scoots closer to Derek, turns toward him and jabs one long, pale finger into Derek's ridiculously toned chest. 

Derek looks down at the finger, then back up at Stiles. 

"Don't _ever_ do that again," Stiles says, trying to do his best Derek Hale impersonation. It's laughable really, and Stiles blames the drugs. 

Derek just stares at him for what seems like _way_ too long. Then he moves back and Stiles lowers his finger. 

"What – save your _life_?” He deadpans, quoting Stiles’ exact words from that night.

Stiles can't help but burst into laughter, but _oh god it hurts to laugh_. 

"Dude..." He breathes, clutching his side, "you can't make me laugh...too painful..." 

And then Derek is right _there_ , his hands on either side of Stiles' neck as he takes some of the pain away. _And god, it's better than any drug_ , Stiles thinks. 

Stiles closes his eyes and nope, he's not at all embarrassed by the soft moan he lets out. After a minute or so – which Stiles considers way too short – Derek pulls his hands away, places them back into his lap. 

"Dude, forget Vicodin..." Stiles says. "I just need you to touch me like _that_ every so often..."

The words are out before Stiles realizes how it sounds. The look on Derek's face is priceless. 

"Or Scott, or Isaac, or any werewolf, really..." Stiles back pedals. He can feel his ears turning bright red and he knows his face is flushed, and it’s not just because of the medication. 

“Stiles,” Derek says his name like a warning. 

 _Ah, everything’s getting back to normal_ , Stiles thinks. _Including Mr. Grumpypants McSourwolf._  

Derek gives him a long-suffering look and Stiles worries that he might have said it aloud instead of just thinking it.

 “You need to rest,” Derek tells him, and then he’s gone in a flash of blue jeans and leather jacket and scowling. 

The Sheriff knocks on Stiles’ door a few minutes later. 

“You need anything?” He asks, his eyes glancing about the room as if he is looking for something. 

 _Ugh, he probably knows Derek was just in here.  So much for werewolf subtlety,_ Stiles thinks. 

“Nope, I’m good…” Stiles replies with a dopey grin. The Sheriff narrows his gaze just a bit before he offers a weak smile. 

“How does pizza sound, for dinner?” His dad asks, and Stiles thinks that is a brilliant idea.  A coming home from the hospital celebration meal, really. 

“We’re getting a veggie lover’s pizza, I hope you know that,” Stiles tells his father matter-of-factly.  The Sheriff looks like he’s about to argue, but he stops himself, then turns to leave. 

“Oh, and next time, tell Derek he’s more than welcome to stay for dinner.” The Sheriff says before he heads back downstairs. 

 _Yep, there it is, he totally knew,_ Stiles thinks, his ears burning. 

 _God, why does it have to be Derek Hale?_  

The next time Derek lets himself into the Stilinski household through the window, Stiles is standing shirtless in the middle of his bedroom, awkwardly attempting to change his dressing.  The wound is at an odd angle, not to mention it’s _huge_ , so Stiles is having a difficult time.  He suddenly feels self-conscious – not because he’s shirtless, but because he’s shirtless _and_ he’s chasing his wound, bandage in hand, like a dog chasing its tail. 

“Hey…” He manages, still fumbling with the clean dressing. 

“Here, let me…” Derek steps closer, puts his hands on Stiles’ bare shoulders and shifts Stiles so the wound is facing him.  He moves Stiles’ right arm out of the way and leans in, studies the sewn-up gash in Stiles’ side. 

Derek’s fingers touch the skin near the dark stitches.  Stiles watches the werewolf, can’t help but notice how close Derek’s mouth is to Stiles’ skin. 

“Kiss it and make it better?” Stiles jokes.  Derek’s green eyes flick up to Stiles’ and he does _not_ look amused. 

He lets out a huff of indignation and his breath is hot on Stiles’ bare skin.  Derek takes the bandage from Stiles and carefully applies it over the wound, smoothing down the edges where the adhesive sticks to Stiles’ ribs.  And maybe Stiles thinks that Derek’s hand lingers there for a bit too long, running over the bandage and past it.  His fingers pause near Stiles’ hip and then _oh god, he’s doing the pain take-away thingy_. 

The bruises that run along his ribcage are starting to turn yellow and the cut in his side doesn’t hurt _that_ bad.  He’s down to taking one Vicodin a day, right before he goes to bed, at his dad’s orders.  The doctor said the stitches would eventually dissolve, and Stiles is glad he won’t have to get them cut out, though he _is_ hoping for a badass scar. 

“Thanks…” Stiles manages when Derek moves his hand back, straightens up. 

“It really doesn’t hurt that bad anymore,” Stiles tells Derek because Derek _really_ needs to stop touching him like that, even if the alpha is only trying to help.  Stiles doesn’t think he’d have this problem if it were Scott or Isaac trying to ease some of the pain. 

Derek narrows his eyes and looks confused for a moment at Stiles’ statement. 

“But your heart rate…” Derek counters as Stiles slips into an oversized t-shirt. 

 _Oh shit,_ Stiles thinks, feeling his heart rate starting to take off again.  Derek had thought it was due to pain, but what happens when the werewolf figures out the true cause? 

“Oh, my dad said you’re welcome to stay for dinner,” Stiles changes the subject.  “We’re having spaghetti…” 

Stiles thinks he’s entered the Twilight Zone when Derek actually follows him downstairs, greets the Sheriff rather cordially, and offers to help set the table like a civilized human being.  Stiles wonders what kind of bonding went on between the two men while Stiles was unconscious in the hospital.  Derek sits beside Stiles and seems to listen when Stiles argues with his dad about taking an extra meatball.  Then Stiles feels like he _has_ to explain the links between cholesterol levels and heart disease, listing off statistics and the American Heart Association’s recommendations. 

His dad takes the extra meatball anyway, and Stiles thinks he sees a Derek crack a smile.  Or a smirk.  Either way, it does something warm and tingly to Stiles to be sitting there at the dinner table with his dad and Derek – who is possibly smiling – and it’s definitely not from the pain killers.  

They are quiet for a while as they eat, Stiles concentrating on some mind exercises Deaton taught him.   

“So what are you two not telling me?” The Sheriff asks as they finish dinner.  Stiles looks up at his dad quickly, and he knows guilt is written all over his face.  No wonder his dad wanted Derek to stay for dinner – it was so he could question him about what happened with the hunters. 

“Uh, dad, what are you talking about?” Stiles manages, but it’s a weak effort.  He knows his dad will see right through it. 

“Stiles…” The Sheriff warns, setting his fork down.  He looks pointedly between Stiles and Derek.  Stiles keeps his eyes either on his dad or his own plate, refusing to glance over at the alpha.  

“I know there’s more going on, more than what you two have told me…” His dad gives him that look, that look that says he’s not going to let them get up until they explain.

“Well, _dad_ …” Stiles starts after a few tense minutes, not quite sure where to begin, really.  He hated lying to his dad last year, keeping things from him and covering things up even when his dad gave him those knowing looks.  Stiles feels better now that his father at least knows about _some_ of the supernatural creatures of Beacon Hills. 

“Can I show you something?” Stiles decides actions are better than words for once.  The Sheriff just looks at Stiles, let’s out an “ _ok_ …” 

“Open the window,” Stiles instructs the Sheriff.  He’s got a wide grin on his face and he chances a look at Derek, who’s been silent this whole time.  Derek just looks perplexed.

It takes some convincing, but the Sheriff finally pushes himself up from the table and slides open the kitchen window, looking back at Stiles. 

“Ok…” Stiles breathes, then closes his eyes. 

Again, he runs through the exercises Deaton taught him, evens out his breathing.  And then when he can hear his heartbeat steady and strong, he opens his eyes and commands the wind. 

A gust blows in through the open window, the curtains rising.  It's strong, not gale force strong, but strong enough to knock empty glasses over on the counter, shift the pictures hanging on the opposite wall, and muss up their hair.  Stiles whoops excitedly and then decides that was a bad idea, since it still makes his side hurt.  Then he tells the wind to stop, and it dies down. 

His dad is staring at him, eyes wide and jaw slack.  Stiles just grins.  He turns to Derek, who is taking it in stride.  The alpha had seen several of Stiles’ attempts at forming rain, so it’s nothing completely new.  Still, the werewolf’s eyes are bright, and he’s smiling.  It’s just a simple upturning of his mouth, but it’s a smile nonetheless. 

Stiles feels triumphant, and he is tempted to grab Derek and kiss him again.  But he resists, laughing instead. 

“So the hunters were after _you_ , specifically?” The Sheriff asks sometime later.  Stiles had explained everything in much better detail after his little trick with the wind.  Stiles and Derek are sitting on the couch, the Sheriff seated in his recliner.  Stiles figures Derek would have been long gone by now, but something’s keeping him. 

“Yeah, they, uh, wanted my abilities…” Stiles admits.  He feels guilty for not telling his dad in the first place, but he knows it would have only caused the Sheriff to worry, and would have placed him in danger as well. 

“And that’s why you got hurt.” The Sheriff says.  “Not just because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time…” 

“No…I was there on purpose…” Stiles tells his dad, watches as the older man sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

“It’s my fault,” Derek chimes in, and he’s been quiet for so long that it almost startles Stiles.  “It was my idea, Sheriff, having Stiles out there…” 

The Sheriff gives Derek a long look, then glances back at Stiles.  Something in his gaze tells Stiles that he doesn’t entirely believe what Derek has said, though. 

“I’m going to bed,” the Sheriff says after a few long minutes, stretching as he stands.  “Stiles, I would suggest the same for you – you have a doctor’s appointment in the morning…” 

Stiles groans when he remembers.  It’s at the ass crack of dawn, too, his two-week check up. 

“I mean it,” The Sheriff calls out from halfway up the stairs.

“Right behind you, dad,” Stiles replies, but he doesn’t get off the couch. 

Instead, he buries his face in his hands and groans again.  He half expects Derek to be gone when he looks back up, but no, there’s the werewolf sitting right there, a few inches away from Stiles. 

“ _Fuck_ , this _sucks_ ,” Stiles groans for the third time. 

“You have improved…” Derek tells him, and Stiles almost laughs.  It’s a little late to be complimenting him on his little magic trick with the wind.  But he’ll take it anyway. 

“Yeah,” he smiles, “I’ve been practicing _a lot_ , especially since I got home from the hospital…” Stiles admits.  He had taken a week and a half off from school, so he had nothing else to do other than practice his “technique” - as Deaton like to call it.  Well, Scott had been bringing him all the work he was missing, but he waited to do that until two days before he started back. 

Derek nods, his lips curved into a half smile.  And there it is again, Stiles thinks, that urge to lean over and kiss him. 

“Yeah, I want to get better at it.” Stiles tells him.  “I want to get better than those assholes.  I don’t want to be defenseless, you know…I want to be able to fight – “ 

“Stiles…” Derek breathes, his mouth set in a hard line. 

“I know, I know, weak human and all, but that’s what I’m trying to – “ Stiles starts, the words coming out faster than he intended, but again, Derek cuts him off. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Derek’s voice is firm.  

“You almost _died_ , Stiles…” Derek says, and all the pain in his voice catches Stiles off-guard.  His pale green eyes speak of loss, and Stiles can only think of a dark-haired sixteen year-old who had his heart ripped into a million pieces by Kate Argent, who burned his family alive.  How the weight of it all is his to bear. 

And he can imagine Derek turning into his alpha form, dragging those two hunters away from Stiles and ripping them to shreds as they screamed.  Then coming back to find Stiles bleeding out, too hurt to even let Derek move him until he had passed out.  And Derek had carried him all the way to the hospital – Stiles is glad he was unconscious for that part – and then came to his hospital room every day, to make sure Stiles was ok.  

Stiles does lean forward this time, his lips finding Derek’s, his hand coming up to rest on Derek’s shoulder.  One of Derek’s hands is warm against Stiles’ neck, the other gently squeezing his knee.  The kiss is a firm press of lips – fervent and warm and _way_ better than Stiles’ two other kisses with the wolf. 

Stiles pulls back slowly after a few moments.  He doesn't want to, though.  He doesn't want to ever stop kissing Derek Hale. But he hadn’t meant the kiss as a distraction, or even as an interruption to their conversation.  It had just seemed right.  It felt right. 

Derek’s hand is still hot on Stiles’ neck, and his own has slide from Derek’s shoulder to his arm.  Stiles leans forward again, sees the way Derek looks at his lips, but Stiles just lets out a sigh and touches his forehead to Derek’s.  He squeezes his eyes shut and knows that if he tried in that moment, he could tell the earth to open up, to swallow them whole. 

“I know…” He says.  _I know I almost died._ He doesn’t say that aloud.  “I know, and I’m sorry…” 

Derek pulls away then, his eyes searching.  As if he doesn’t want to accept Stiles’ apology, wants to shoulder all the blame himself. 

“Look, it was _my_ idea, ok.  It was my fault, really…” Stiles tries to argue.  Derek’s hand is no longer on his neck and it’s as if Stiles’ tether to the earth is gone. 

“I’m ok, really,” Stiles pleads.  “I know I’m human and it takes me longer to heal, but I’m ok.  You don’t have to blame yourself.  You can’t protect everyone…” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Stiles knows it’s the wrong thing to say.  Derek looks like he’s been punched in the gut, and Stiles can only guess at the unbelievable sense of failure at having his family killed, his house burned down, all because of a stupid, one-sided love affair with an older woman.

“I know…” Derek says as he stands up, the words harsh.  It takes Stiles a few extra seconds to get off the couch, his ribs still protesting just a bit, but then he’s right there, facing Derek.

“I’m sorry, Derek, I – “ Stiles attempts to apologize, but he can see the look in the alpha’s eyes and it’s so fucking tragic that Stiles can hardly stand it.  It’s like when his mom died, but ten times worse because Derek really does think it was his fault that his whole family died, that his uncle killed Laura before going on a rampage about town.  Stiles could see it a year ago when Derek picked three emotionally-scarred teenagers to turn into werewolves, got two of them kidnapped by the alpha pack, had to sacrifice pieces of his humanity to get them back, to run the alphas out of town. 

“I’ve got to go,” Derek says, his voice no longer harsh.  Instead, he just sounds tired. 

Stiles doesn’t follow him as he leaves through the front door.  He does move to lock it eventually, leaning his forehead against the cool wood and exhaling loudly.  He tries to concentrate, letting the steady rhythm of his heart call out to the sky.  

When he commands it to rain, it pours.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is singing “Make it Rain” to himself, standing in his back yard in the middle of a downpour of his own making when Derek decides to show up, like, out of nowhere.
> 
> “Shit, dude, don’t scare me like that!” Stiles exclaims when suddenly Derek is standing behind him, leering. The rain stops immediately.
> 
> “You’ve gotten better,” Derek states, leather squeaking as he folds his arms across his chest.
> 
> In this chapter, Stiles hones his skills, confronts Derek (well, sort of), and turns eighteen. Oh, and there's more kissing.

Starting back to school has sucked.  _So bad._

Stiles’ ribs are still too tender for him to carry much, so his dad made him take one of those ridiculous rolling backpacks the first day, which earned him quite a few stares and snickers, though no one would make fun of him to his face because he was _just_ in the hospital, for fuck’s sake.

By day two, he had Scott and Isaac carrying all of his textbooks and binders for him, leaving that god awful rolling suitcase-looking thingy in his jeep.  He tried to dress out for lacrosse practice, knowing he’d be sitting on the bench for _a while_ , but Finstock just shook his head when he caught sight of Stiles in the locker room.

“I need a note from your doctor, Stilinski, before I can let you come back to practice,” Coach Finstock had told him, a look of sympathy on the man’s face.  Stiles had just grumbled, tearing off his jersey – which was a mistake, his ribs aching in protest – and grabbing the rolling backpack before he exited the locker room.

“Dude, I’m sorry…” Scott had said that afternoon, working on homework over at Stiles’.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles’ head was pounding and his side felt like it was splitting open and maybe going back to school this soon was a mistake. 

“I mean, I was just going to be sitting on the bench anyway – like _usual_ ,” Stiles had muttered.

He asks for a note at his two-week check up, but the doctor just shakes his head and explains that Stiles needs to wait another four to six weeks to do any sort of contact sports.  That, coupled with Derek’s abrupt departure the night before has Stiles in a foul mood when his dad drops him off at school later that morning.  He just wants to go home and sleep and not think about how he’ll probably never get to kiss Derek ever again.

His classes aren’t so bad, though, and with all this magic stuff that he’s learned over the past month and a half, he actually has something to occupy his brain when he gets bored during class.  His Adderall makes him _super_ focused, and he thinks his abilities are bound to be even better now – because, yeah, he may have skipped quite a few doses of his ADD medication once he got home from the hospital.

It’s AP English and the teacher is droning on and on about Hamlet, which Stiles has read four times over the past six years – his mom loved classic literature, especially plays, and she would act them out with Stiles when he was younger – and so he zones out and starts concentrating on his breathing techniques instead.  He wishes the classroom windows were open so he could send in gusts of wind, have the students scrambling around as their loose pages of notes go flying.  But the windows are shut, locked tight – probably sealed. 

Stiles toys with the idea of trying to see if he can make the sprinklers go off.  It would definitely be a change of pace, watching everyone squeal and grab up their things as water rained down from above.  But he puts that thought aside, knowing he’d just strain himself trying.  And he’d probably fail miserably.

So he listens to his heartbeat instead.  He lets it become the sole object of his focus as he retreats inside himself, and the sound transforms so that it’s no longer the muffled pulsing in his ears but a steady metronome, beating out the rhythm of his blood.

It’s only when he allows his body to relax, to feel the thrum of life within him – the _spark_ – that he can command the elements.  He’s connected to them _through_ himself, his very being just an extension of the world.  The chemicals that are in him – the very atoms that are pulled together to make him Stiles – are the same ones that form the universe. 

So far, he can only control one thing at a time, and it’s only rain and wind.  He’s working on the earth, imagining it shifting and moving beneath him, instead of being static.  It’s more difficult, not as fluid as water or air, but he won’t give up.

Fire is a tricky one, too.  It’s not that it’s difficult to command like the earth, it’s just that once summoned, it’s hard to control, to not be consumed by the flames.  Plus there’s the fact that almost all of Derek’s family were killed in a fire, so he’s definitely not practicing that one around the alpha.  But it’s not like he’ll see much of Derek anyway, judging by how their conversation went the night before. 

Still, Stiles doesn’t want to risk burning down the school or his own house or ending up in the hospital again, this time with burn wounds.

“You going to be home for dinner?” The Sheriff had asked him before dropping him off for school that morning, after his doctor’s appointment.

“Yeah, I’ll be there…” Stiles had admitted, perplexed as to why his dad was asking.  It’s not like he had a social life that didn’t revolve around the latest supernatural threat.  And hopefully there wouldn’t be another one of those for a while.

“Good, because there’s something I want to talk to you about.” The Sheriff had kept staring ahead at the road, but Stiles had the sinking suspicion that his dad might have heard part – if not all – of his conversation with Derek the night before.

What his father wants to talk to him about, in reality, surprises Stiles.

“I think your mother…I think she had these same _abilities,_ ” The Sheriff tells him later that night, after they’ve cleaned up the kitchen.  Stiles turns too quickly and it _hurts._

“Really?!” He exclaims, trying to think back, to any instance where her powers might have been on display.  “Because she never said anything to me about them – “

“She didn’t say anything to me either,” his dad admits, but there’s the hint of a smile on the older man's features, as if he’s reminiscing.  “But there was a way she always knew the weather, how she loved to be out of doors, how she seemed so connected to nature…”

Stiles remembers how she used to love taking him to the park every Sunday, how they would hike around Beacon Hills Preserve when he was a little bit older.  He would gather leaves for school projects, and she would slide her pale fingers along the bark of the trees, as if greeting an old friend.  She tended a beautiful garden as well, full of flowers and herbs and vegetables.  Everything seemed to grow perfectly, and none of their plants ever died.

But then she had gotten sick, and the plants in her garden had begun to wilt.  In her final days, Stiles would help her outside and they’d spread a big blanket on the grass.  She would lay there, her head covered with a colorful scarf, and she’d watch the clouds go by.  Sometimes she would stretch out her arms, her fingers pointed toward the heavens, and trace slow patterns in the sky, as if conducting a symphony of clouds.

“You know, I think you’re right,” Stiles agrees.  “It’s a little different than what I can do, but I think she did have some magic in her.  It’s probably where I get it from – “ 

“Magic…” The Sheriff smiles at the word, shaking his head.  “I always thought your mother was magic.  She had this sense about her, this spark, but I just called it love…”

Later that night, Stiles pulls out the old photo album he keeps beneath his bed and leafs through it.  He hasn’t done it in a while – look at the pictures of his mother when she was still young and healthy.  There’s an ache in his chest that he knows won’t ever go away, but at least it’s bearable now.  Part of him thinks it shouldn’t be.

“Hey mom,” he says as he strokes the edge of the photographs lovingly.  “I bet you _were_ magic…” 

And there she is, her dark hair and bright smile and golden brown eyes – the same as Stiles’.

He goes to the vet clinic after school the next day to show Deaton his progress.  The veterinarian is pleasantly surprised, praising Stiles for his hard work.  Scott’s there working, and stares wide eyed at Stiles when he showcases his skills.

“Dude…” Scott manages, still looking a bit dazed, his hair ruffled from the wind gust that Stiles blew at him.  Stiles just grins.

“Dude!” Scott says again, this time with more enthusiasm.  “This is awesome!” 

“I know, right?!” Stiles chimes in, catching Deaton giving them a pointed look.

“I think I got it from my mom,” Stiles tells them when they’re back inside the clinic.  “I mean, she never said anything about having special powers, but there were things she did…”

“Yes,” Deaton is nodding, looking thoughtful.  “It’s most likely been passed down through the generations.  Some people possess these abilities but never even realize it.  It takes quite a bit of concentration to hone these skills.”

“Yeah, it does,” Stiles agrees.  “And I feel so tired afterward.  Like seriously, I could take a nap right now.”

“Be careful not to strain yourself, especially so soon after your injury,” Deaton advises him.  It’s the same thing his father had said the night before.  Stiles nods, knowing that his ribs ache a little more after he practices, that his body feels weak, his mind clouded.

Deaton gives him a new set of mental exercises, and Stiles offers Scott a ride as he’s leaving.

“Oh, thanks, but Allison’s picking me up,” Scott replies, a dopey grin plastered on his face.  Stiles just rolls his eyes.

His ribs finally stop aching after another week or two, and the stitches start to dissolve, though Stiles ends up picking at them more than he should, causing the wound to bleed a little.  He has a thick, red scar on his side – from ribs to hip – and he hopes it’ll stay that way.  It looks fucking badass.  But the doctor had explained that it would take time for the scar to fully mature, and so it would fade, to a certain extent.

And all the while, Stiles hasn’t heard a single peep out of Derek.  There’s been no climbing in through Stiles’ bedroom window to help change bandages or to leach away some of the pain.  There’s been no dinner with Derek and his dad.  And there’s definitely been no conversation about that kiss.

And there probably never will be, unless Stiles brings it up.

Stiles is singing “Make it Rain” to himself, standing in his back yard in the middle of a downpour of his own making when Derek decides to show up, like, out of nowhere. 

“Shit, dude, don’t scare me like that!” Stiles exclaims when suddenly Derek is standing behind him, leering.  The rain stops immediately. 

“You’ve gotten better,” Derek states, leather squeaking as he folds his arms across his chest.

“Yeah…” Stiles admits and he can’t help but grin, “but I’ve still got a lot to work on.  I mean, don’t get me started on earth.  I mean, it’s California for Christ’s sake, you’d think I could make the ground shake, just a little, but noooo.  The ground likes to remain where it is.  It’s just so stubborn…”

He realizes he’s rambling a bit and stops.  He thinks he sees the hint of a smirk on Derek’s face.

“Why are you here anyway?” Stiles asks and perhaps it comes out a bit more harsh than he had intended, but Derek’s been avoiding him for two weeks now, so whatever.

“The weather’s been pretty unpredictable lately,” Derek says, glancing up at the sky.  Stiles follows his gaze.  The rain clouds have all but dissipated, and the sun’s trying to peak out.  “So I figured it had to be you…”

“What, am I messing with your training sessions or something?” Stiles asks, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists and knots up to think of Derek coming to check up on him.

“No,” Derek replies, his mouth turning down into a frown.  “I think we can handle a little bit of rain…” He adds, and Stiles has known him long enough to catch the wry tone in his words.

“A ‘little bit’?!” Stiles chafes at Derek’s statement.  “A ‘little bit’?!  I don’t think blinding rain by yours truly is just a ‘little bit.’”

Derek does smirk that time, uncrossing his arms and letting them fall to his sides.

“That could be very useful in a fight, to distract the enemy.” Derek comments.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m working on being able to control _where_ I make it rain.” Stiles explains.  “Like if I wanted it to rain in my neighbor’s yard and not here…”

“And how’s that coming along?” Derek asks.

“Ha, not so well, as you can see,” Stiles tells him, lifting his arms and gesturing toward his soaked clothes.  “ _Part_ of the rain shower was in their yard, though…”

“And what’s up with you being Chatty Cathy?” Stiles asks, his mouth running away from him. “Is it because you _missed_ me…?” He teases.  “And are you seriously just going to stand there?”

“How's your wound?” Derek asks, avoiding Stiles’ barrage of questions.

“Dude…” Stiles replies, tugging at his t-shirt so he can show Derek the scar.  “It’s freakin’ _badass_ …”

It’s more an exhale than an actual laugh, but Stiles can see that Derek is amused.  Stiles feels his neck start to flush, though, as Derek’s eyes trace over his torso where the scar runs deep and red.

He thinks about teasing Derek, again, about how he really _does_ care, but that thought makes his heart stutter.  Stiles realizes that it’s become something _not_ to be joked about.  He catches Derek’s gaze and holds it for a long moment.  Derek’s mouth is set in a neutral line, but there’s a spark of something in his green eyes.

It’s Stiles who breaks away first, glancing down at the ground and kicking at the wet earth.  He suddenly feels chilly in his damp clothes, and he hugs his arms to himself.

“So…” He starts, unsure exactly what to say.  He knows Derek is there to check up on him, but what that means exactly – he’s not sure.  

“Are we going to have that conversation now?” Stiles asks, folding his arms tighter across his chest.  His heart is beating double time.

“ _Stiles_ …” Derek speaks his name like a warning, like no, he’s not going to talk.  Getting Derek to actually have a conversation about _feelings_ would be like pulling teeth – large, fanged teeth.  Still, Stiles had to throw it out there, had to indicate that there was indeed something that warranted discussion.

 _We’ve saved each other’s lives too many times for this shit._

“Well, are you going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me for the past two weeks?” Stiles raises an eyebrow at the alpha. 

Derek’s eyes go a little wide at that.  A year ago, Derek would have just turned and left, not even bothering to dignify Stiles with any sort of response.  It’s a testament to how much their shaky friendship has changed that he’s actually still standing there, in the middle of Stiles’ back yard. 

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” Derek replies. “I’ve been busy…”

“Of course,” Stiles drawls, disbelief apparent in his tone.  “Secret werewolf business, huh?”

“The new appliances came in,” Derek’s response actually surprises Stiles.  “And Peter and I have been putting in the new floor…” That surprises Stiles even more.

“Huh…” Stiles lets out, and he considers making some quip about nephew-uncle bonding time, but he decides against it.  Less is usually more where Derek Hale is concerned.

He sees Derek’s eyes flit to the road, and the sheriff is pulling up in the driveway a minute later.  Stiles turns his gaze away from the alpha for a moment, and when he looks back, all he sees is the back of Derek’s head as the werewolf stalks off toward the trees. 

“So we’re not going to have that talk?” Stiles calls out, his voice rising at the end.  Derek doesn’t bother with any sort of response. “And you know you can stay for dinner!” Stiles yells as well, but Derek is gone.

“I hear there’s some serious renovations going on over at the Hale house…” Stiles brings it up the next day at lunch.  Isaac nods.

“Yeah, they had me lay the tile in the downstairs bathroom.” Isaac tells them, his voice soft.

“ _They_ …?” Scott asks, turning toward the other werewolf.

“Derek and Peter,” Isaac replies. 

“It’s nice to hear that they’re actually getting along…” Stiles grins.  “You know, after the whole killing his sister and murdering innocent townspeople debacle…”

Isaac and Scott both cringe at the words, and yep, sometimes Stiles can _still_ be a jerk.

“So what’s next?  New countertops in the kitchen?  Painting the walls?” Stiles asks animatedly.  “Oooh, ooh or landscaping…?”

Stiles turns eighteen a week later.  He’s glad his birthday falls on a Friday this year, because when he turned seventeen he’d had to show up to school hungover the next day, and it was _not_ fun.  He’d gotten wasted at Scott’s house – Mrs. McCall had been working the night shift – surrounded by people who couldn’t even get drunk.  Though if they tried hard enough Stiles thinks, they probably could.  They’d probably have to down an entire bottle of whiskey or vodka in a few short seconds – overwhelm their amped up metabolism.  Even werewolf livers couldn’t process alcohol _that_ quickly.

But mostly they had refused to drink, taking the occasional shot just to humor Stiles.  There had been cake, and a few gifts, though the whole night ended up being a blur.  Stiles had crawled into Scott’s bed at 2 am – after vomiting profusely in Scott’s bathroom – swearing off alcohol completely.

This year he didn’t really have any definite plans.  Eighteen was a milestone – he could serve his country, buy lottery tickets and tobacco – but more than anything else, he was just lucky to be alive.

“Dude, it’s your _eighteenth_ birthday,” Scott tells him at school that day, when Stiles explains that he doesn’t really want to celebrate.  It’s just that the last few months – hell, the last few years – have been pretty stressful, and trouble seems to follow them wherever they go. 

“Yeah, and I’d really like to live to see _nineteen_ as well…” Stiles grumbles.  And he doesn’t want to think about how he’s leaving for college in a few short months, or how much he’ll miss his dad – and Scott, and the rest of his friends.  How he’ll be leaving Derek….

“Look, I’ll come over tonight, we’ll go buy some scratch-offs and some cigarettes and then we can just do whatever,” Scott offers, and then uses his puppy dog eyes on Stiles.

“Oh yeah, says the one who can’t get lung cancer…” Stiles retorts, but he can’t resist Scott’s wide, pleading eyes.

“Ok, ok,” Stiles agrees, but not before he lets out a dramatic sigh.  Scott grins.  “But if you get me addicted to those things…”

“Pick me up at six, at the vet clinic?” Scott asks before they go their separate ways.

His dad is working the night shift, and Stiles had had to promise the Sheriff over and over again that it was perfectly _ok_ , that they would do their Stilinski men birthday dinner on Saturday night.  His dad had finally let it rest, promising Stiles that he would pick up a cake at the bakery the next day.

Stiles stops by the vet clinic early that evening, hoping to catch Deaton, to show the older man his progress.  Stiles is still frustrated with earth, but he's gotten much better at controlling fire.  The vet is cautiously impressed, and Stiles feels like the older man has been holding out on him when he hands Stiles a pile of books to study.

“You mean you’re just now showing me these?” Stiles balks, nearly dropping the four or five leather-bound volumes.

“Think of them as a birthday present,” Deaton replies, his voice soft and even.  He does smile, though, and yep, still creepy.  “And they may not be of any use to you…or you may find them _very_ useful…”

_What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_

“Not all forms of ‘magic’ are the same,” Deaton explains.  “But at this point, I feel it’s better for you to arm yourself with as much knowledge as possible.” 

There’s a hint of foreboding in Deaton’s voice, and Stiles doesn’t like it _at all_.  The veterinarian looks very solemn all of a sudden, and _yay, Happy Birthday to me!_ Stiles thinks.  He can’t decide if his excitement about the books outweighs the frustration he feels at the older man’s enigmatic bullshit. 

“I’d start with the one on symbology…” Deaton tells him.

Scott looks like a fish out of water trying to mouth the word ‘symbology’ inquisitively, and Stiles has to laugh.  He feels some of the tension ease its way out of his body.  He’s been stressed, stressed because of the hunters, because of Derek’s near-death experience with the lightning, not to mention his newfound magical abilities and his _own_ near-death experience…

But he really _is_ glad he has Scott, even if the werewolf ditches him for Allison more often than not these days.  Scott grabs his things and they head out in Stiles’ Jeep, stopping at the nearest convenience store. 

Scott pours over which lottery tickets to buy while Stiles contemplates his choice of tobacco.  He’s never smoked in his life, and he’s not planning on starting now, but it _is_ his eighteenth birthday.  He finally decides on Pall Mall Lights – the package is royal blue and the logo intrigues Stiles.  There’s a crest with two lions, and in between is the Latin phrase “per aspera ad astra.”

Through adversity, to the stars… 

“If my dad catches me with these, he’s going to be severely disappointed…” Stiles mutters as they climb back into the Jeep.

“Dude, there’s a lot worse things your dad could catch you with than a pack of cigarettes,” Scott says and Stiles gives him a look because it’s true, _so_ true.  There is definitely a _lot_ more trouble Stiles could be getting into on his eighteenth birthday than hanging out with Scott and smoking a few cigarettes.  With his luck, he’ll probably smoke one and puke up his dinner – Scott suggested they order a few pizzas when they get back to Stiles’ – or he’ll get bronchitis for a week and never want to smoke again.   

It’s quiet and dark when they turn into Stiles’ neighborhood, and Scott starts furiously texting.  Stiles just rolls his eyes.

“Dude, I asked you what kind of pizza you want to order…” Stiles gripes at Scott. It’s not really that big of a deal, they are normally a cheese or pepperoni or meat lover’s type, but Stiles does feel a twinge of disappointment that his best friend can’t even stay off his cell phone for five minutes while they’re hanging out.

“Uh…” Scott replies, looking up from his phone.  “I don’t care, whatever kind you want to order is fine…” he offers, then ducks his head back down and gazes at the screen.  Stiles huffs begrudgingly, but Scott doesn’t even seem to notice.  They are already in the driveway at that point, though, so Stiles puts the Jeep in park and yeah, maybe he slams the door a little too hard, but so be it.  His baby has seen a lot worse…

Stiles screams and nearly jumps into Scott’s arms when he flicks the light switch and instead of an empty living room, it’s full of _people_.

There’s a rather lackluster attempt at “surprise,” and then Stiles realizes that no, he’s not about to be murdered, or asked to join a cult, but rather they’re all in his house for a party – a genuine surprise party, for _him_.

His heart is beating out of his chest as he tries to calm down, as he catches sight of Allison and Lydia, along with Erica and Isaac and Boyd, who are standing near the kitchen.  There are balloons – one in every color, along with a shiny Mylar balloon, shaped like Batman.  There are streamers as well, a tiny pile of presents and cards…

And a cake!  It’s one of those grocery store-bought sheet cakes, the icing dark blue – and yep, that’s definitely going to stain their mouths, Stiles thinks – with bright yellow writing, but Stiles doesn’t care, he _loves_ it.

He lets out a happy laugh because they really _did_ fool him.  He had no idea, and when he turns back to look at Scott, his best friend has this half dopey, half self-satisfied grin plastered on his face.

“Dude, I totally thought I was going to get caught!” Scott admits with a laugh.  “I thought for sure you knew something was up…”

“No, I didn’t suspect it at all!” Stiles replies because it’s the truth.  He’d been too wrapped up in his own I’m-eighteen-now-and-about-to-move-away-from-all-my-friends-and-possibly-the-love-of-my-life-oh-my-god-did-I-just-say-love pity party to notice there was anything going on right under his own nose.

They all wish him happy birthday – Scott claps him on the back a little too forcefully as they hug, and then Stiles feels his ears turn bright red when Allison and Lydia kiss him sweetly on either cheek.  Erica nudges his shoulder with her own and offers him a wry smile, while Isaac gives him a shy, one-arm hug.  Boyd grips Stiles’ shoulder and shakes him affectionately, his smile blindingly white against his dark skin.

And then there is Derek, slipping out from the kitchen like the creeper he is, and Stiles can’t help but catch his gaze.  The alpha is silent, but he affords Stiles a rare smile, one that sends chills down Stiles’ spine and at the same time makes his stomach feel all warm and fluttery. 

He's snapped out of it, though, when Lydia clears her throat and looks pointedly at the betas.  Isaac looks frightened for half a second before he retreats to the kitchen, reemerging moments later carrying five or six pizza boxes.  Stiles practically starts drooling at the smell – he hadn’t had much of an appetite at lunch – and he knows the wolves must be salivating as well, what with their canine olfactory sense. 

When they’ve stuffed themselves with enough pizza to feed an entire starving village in some third world country, Scott remembers the cake.  Lydia procures a packet of striped candles – they’re pink and white, of course – and places eighteen right into the thick, blue icing. 

“And one to grow on,” she says in a singsong tone as she adds another, right near the edge of the cake.

Stiles doesn’t even need a match to light them. 

His friends stare at him, wide-eyed, when he just snaps the flame into being between his thumb and index finger.  He can feel it burn down along his arm, his hand, to the very tips of his fingers, but it doesn’t injure him because he’s in control.  It’s just an extension of himself, and _he_ is under control.

He sees the nineteen candles flicker and cast an orange glow onto their faces before he places his hands on his hips rather dramatically.

“Well, aren’t you guys going to sing ‘Happy Birthday’?” He asks, basking in the power he feels at rendering them speechless.

Stiles actually does smoke a cigarette later that night.  And yeah, he might have had too much to drink – Lydia had led him into the kitchen after they’d cut the cake, her fingers slipping from his so that she could pull two tall bottles from the fridge.  One had been some sort of white wine –

“For _me_ ,” Lydia had said with a flick of her hair, but then she’d given Stiles a measured look and added, “But you can have some too, of course.”

The other bottle was some fancy Scotch, and Lydia had poured him a glass of the golden liquid over a few cubes of ice.  _So classy._

He’s just a little buzzed, really, not _drunk_ , per se, when he finally retreats out the back door for some fresh air.  He takes in a few big lungfuls, breathing it all in until it becomes a part of himself, until he can feel and taste and see everything growing and changing all around him.  It’s a clear night, crisp and cold and he can see _so many_ stars that it starts to make him feel dizzy.  Or maybe it’s the alcohol.  He’s left his glass inside, but it was pretty much empty anyway.

Stiles sits on the back step, and that’s when he feels the cigarettes in his pocket.  He pulls the pack out and unwraps the plastic, thumbs open the lid and fishes out one long, white cigarette.  He can hear laughter from inside – Scott is arguing animatedly about _something_ , while Allison and Lydia giggle and someone else, Isaac perhaps, speaks up as well.

Stiles has just put the end of the cigarette between his lips when Derek steps out the back door, looks down at him.  Stiles presses his lips tighter around the cigarette as he glances up at the wolf, and for a moment Derek swims in his vision and Stiles is glad he’s seated.

Derek just stands there and scowls.

The back step isn’t big enough for them both to sit, and Stiles really doubts that Derek would sit there anyway, so he stands up, has to scramble a bit not to fall back down as he steps out into the yard.  Derek shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and descends the last few steps so that he, too, is standing in the backyard, just a foot or two from Stiles.

“I’m eighteen, don’t be so judge-y,” Stiles mumbles, the unlit cigarette still stuck between his lips.

He takes a deep breath through his nose and snaps his fingers again, letting the spark that lives within him unfurl from his very core.  He feels the burn of it in his right hand before the flame actually manifests, flaring to life in his palm.  It’s brighter and fiercer than before, but still, he is in control.

He’s got the cigarette lit and the flame extinguished before he has a chance to even note Derek’s reaction.  Stiles takes a long drag from the cigarette – he’s seen enough people smoke to know how it’s done, ok – and then he exhales, gray smoke exiting from his open mouth like warm air on a wintry morning.

“Per aspera ad astra,” he recites, letting the pleasant thrum of alcohol in his veins tug the corners of his mouth up into a grin.  He’s holding the cigarette in his fingers as soft tendrils of smoke wind their way up to the heavens.

And then he catches Derek’s gaze, the spark from the cigarette reflected in the werewolf’s blue-green eyes.  Derek’s eyes are wide, his pupils constricted despite the dark night that surrounds them.  Stiles doesn’t know what he sees there, on the alpha’s face, but it’s _something_.

Fear?  Awe?  Respect…?

And then it’s as if the alpha shakes himself out of it, whatever it was.  Derek’s eyes narrow slightly, his pupils dilating appropriately, and he wrinkles his nose at the noxious fumes from the cigarette.

Stiles wants to laugh as he thinks about how worse it would be with a werewolf’s sense of smell, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he takes another drag and coughs, choking on the fumes.

“Oh god…” Stiles sputters, dropping the cigarette onto the grass and suddenly Derek is moving closer, his hands grabbing Stiles’ shoulders.  He pulls Stiles back as if the thing’s a bomb, not a cigarette, and then stomps it out himself with one black boot.

“Dude!” Stiles nearly yells, but then something registers in his alcohol-clouded mind and _oh yeah, fire_ …

They are still standing close, so close that Stiles feels like he’s going cross-eyed to meet Derek’s gaze.  And he knows that his mouth and teeth are probably stained blue from the cake – he saw how dark Erica’s tongue had turned because she’d stuck it out at him a few times, and of course Derek had refused to eat a piece – but he doesn’t care.  All Stiles has to do is tilt his head, move in the last few inches, and then Derek’s mouth is warm and wet against his own.  He breathes into the kiss, feels the burn at the back of his throat from the cigarette and tastes ash on the tip of his tongue.

Derek’s hands are firm on his hips and Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat at the touch.  But then Derek is pushing him back, pulling away from the kiss.

Stiles’ mouth is hanging open, the buzz from the alcohol completely gone as Derek stands there, stares him down.

“Those things are disgusting…” Derek remarks, nodding toward the blue package that Stiles is still clutching in one hand before he stalks off, retreating into the darkness.

Stiles wants to throw the stupid pack of cigarettes on the ground, leave them right there, but he knows his dad would probably find them, give him that awful, “I’m disappointed in you, Stiles” look.  So Stiles shoves the package into the pocket of his jeans and climbs the back step to his house, unable to escape the smell of smoke and ash that lingers in the night air.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, you don’t have to do this…” Derek says after a few minutes of silence.
> 
> “Don’t have to do what?” Stiles snaps back. “Actually try to help for once?”
> 
> “You’ve always been a help…” Derek admits, glancing over at Stiles. Stiles stares at the alpha, his mouth agape. He doesn’t really know how to respond to that, but he feels like maybe, just maybe Derek does appreciate him – he’s just a shitty communicator.
> 
> “I just mean this – all this magic stuff,“ Derek continues. “We’ve all noticed how it’s wearing you thin…”
> 
> “Whatever,” Stiles says bitterly, looking out the window as the trees rush by. “You don’t understand. You’re the big, bad alpha werewolf…and I – I’m just a human. But I have this power – “
> 
> “And it’s draining you, Stiles…” Derek cuts him off. 
> 
> “You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself…” Derek says. It sounds so much like a plea that Stiles feels his heart flutter at the words. A year and a half ago, Derek Hale wouldn’t have cared if Stiles killed himself trying to learn about his own innate supernatural abilities. But they’ve been through too much. They’re pack now.

Stiles is still pouring over the symbology book that Deaton had given him the day before when he hears his father’s police cruiser pull into the driveway.  It’s seven am, and yep, he’s been awake all night, reading and tracing out runes – he’s filled half of his calculus notebook by the time his dad comes in through the front door.

He slams the book shut reluctantly and nearly crashes headlong down the stairs, greets the Sheriff in the kitchen.  The older man raises an eyebrow at his appearance, obviously noting how Stiles is still wearing yesterday’s clothes, before turning back toward the fridge. 

“Fun party, huh?” The sheriff asks, and Stiles’ heart stutters for half a second before he remembers that Lydia had taken the alcohol home last night, had cleaned up the kitchen – god, she _was_ an angel – before Stiles had finally gone upstairs.

The streamers are still hanging in the living room and kitchen, the balloons still bobbing happily from where they are tied to the backs of chairs, and there’s about one-third of the birthday cake left.

And that’s when it hits Stiles that _of course_ his dad knew about the party, why else would he work the night shift on his son’s eighteenth birthday and not try to get out of it?

“You’re _good_ …” Stiles says, giving his dad a look of appraisal as the older man sets the carton of eggs onto the counter.  “You and Scott both…”

The sheriff laughs at that and Stiles just shakes his head.  He’s so used to being the one keeping all the secrets that it’s strange to be on the opposite side of things.

Stiles tells his dad all about the party – minus the alcohol and cigarettes and kissing, of course – over omelets and orange juice, recounting the awed looks on everyone’s face when he lit all of the birthday candles with his newly honed fire-starter skills.

And then his dad gives him that “you be careful” look, mixed with an “oh my god, my son’s going to burn down the house” look and Stiles can’t help but grumble.  His dad _doesn’t_ mention the faint smell of cigarette smoke that lingers on Stiles’ clothes, though, and for that, Stiles is grateful.

Stiles gets an official letter releasing him to play lacrosse at his next doctor’s appointment, and whooping triumphantly, he finds Scott and Isaac and Boyd to tell them the good news.

And things are quiet in Beacon Hills – almost _too_ quiet.  The pack trains and hangs out, helps Derek and Peter with the renovations.  Stiles studies the books Deaton gives him – two of them prove to be of _no_ use, whatsoever, but the others…

Stiles can’t contain his excitement when he learns how to incorporate the ancient symbols with his control of the elements.  It’s simple, really, so simple that Stiles has to laugh when it just clicks one day, one warm afternoon in early spring.

He’s memorized the runes – symbols, ideographs, morphemes, or whatever the fuck you want to call them – and can draw them all out, flawlessly.  It takes quite a bit of concentration, but once Stiles learns how to piece them together, once he realizes that the shapes are just stand-ins for thoughts and ideas, he is able to connect them with his own sense of being, with the ebb and flow of the world around him _and_ within him.

He starts with something he thinks will be easy and traces out the symbols for “water” and “sky” and “place” into the dirt near his feet.  Wiping his hand on his jeans he straightens back up, inhaling deeply as he focuses on the characters.  Stiles closes his eyes and draws them out again in his mind, connects the symbols to the hum of life he feels within him – his heart beating sure and steady, his breath an unwavering puff of warmth in front of his face.

When he opens his eyes again, the sky obeys, washing the earth in the cleansing warmth of a spring shower.  And it’s exactly where Stiles had imagined it, the rain falling in a wide circle, drenching the back corner of the Dodson’s yard.

Stiles feels the force of it, the tug in his gut as he lets out an ecstatic yell, twisting his body to make sure no one is watching him.  But it’s quiet in his neighborhood, most everyone still at work.

He lets it rain for a minute or two, watches as the fat drops roll off the row of hedges.  The clouds are dark, ominous, despite his mood being light, and it makes Stiles wonder.  Wonder if he can rouse that spark within him, that same flicker of energy that he uses to call forth fire.  If he can turn it into something else, as he wills. 

He focuses on the thrumming in his chest, the idea in his mind of hydrogen and oxygen coming together, coalescing in those heavy clouds to form precipitation.  And then he weaves it all together with that nucleus of fire that lives within him, commands the flame not to travel through his own body, but into the body of clouds in the darkening sky.

His mind is made for this, Stiles thinks, for once his ADD something of a gift.  That he can string together hundreds of thoughts, focus _just_ enough not to lose a single one, but rather have them all exist there – the rain and the clouds and the sky and the eternal spark that chose to dwell in him – _him_ , a lanky teenager from Beacon Hills who pals around with a bunch of werewolves.

He thinks of his friends, of yelling at Scott during some stupid argument, of Erica telling him she’d had a crush on him – _him_ , Stiles Stilinski – since god knows when, of Lydia looking so lost and broken when Jackson had slipped away from her, had become something of a monster…

He thinks of the bolt of lightning that coursed through Derek, how the alpha had taken three steps – _three fucking steps_ – before he had collapsed.  How Stiles had rushed to his side, pressed down to keep his heart pumping, had slotted his mouth over Derek’s to breathe in the oxygen his brain so sorely needed.  How the werewolf had thanked him, though Stiles had to practically tear it out of him.

Stiles can feel the electrostatic charge in the air, the hairs on his arm, the back of his neck rising as the ions collide, polarize, and the positive and negative charges balance.  He focuses on the clouds again, on the rain, on the symbols written in the dirt.

And right before the lightning strikes, he thinks of the brush of lips on his own, the warm throb of desire that flares deep within him.

The bolt hits a tall tree in his neighbor’s yard, splintering off one large branch that crashes to the earth.  Stiles stumbles back, falls to the ground and covers his eyes from the near-blinding flash of light.  His heart skips a beat and the rainfall stops, but then the sound of thunder fills everything and Stiles just knows he’s going to be deaf _and_ blind now, _great_ …

He recovers slowly, standing up on wobbly legs and feeling the world spin treacherously as he throws his arms out for balance.  He wipes at the dirt with one foot, erasing the symbols, and then takes stock of the mess he’s made.

The Dodson’s tall oak isn’t on fire at least, though it does look a little charred.  And the whole scene looks rather odd, what with their yard the only one that’s wet. 

_Well, at least I know the symbols work…_

Nope, Stiles is not going to freak out about it, at all.  Not about the fact that he’s kissed Derek Hale four times in the past two and a half months.  And definitely not about the infinite cosmic power thing, nope.  He’s just a normal eighteen year-old boy who just so happens to be friends with werewolves and on a good day can control the elements.  Nothing wrong with that.

And he feels like he would have a panic attack, only he’s wiped out from the rain shower and the lightning, so he climbs the stairs slowly, like his legs are suddenly made of lead, and falls face-first into bed.

He’s shut his eyes when his phone chimes, signaling a text.  He opens one eye and sees that it’s from Scott.

 _Weird lightning over ur house, u ok?_   It reads and Stiles huffs out a laugh, then groans when he moves to sit up.  His whole body hurts.

 _I’m fine_. Stiles types back with one hand.  _Just practicing,_ he adds after pausing for a minute.

He watches as the text message goes through, then he tosses his phone onto the mattress.  He rubs his hands over his eyes and groans again.  His head is throbbing, his muscles ache…

His phone goes off a few seconds later, Scott’s number flashing on the screen.

“That was _you_?!” Scott nearly yells at him through the phone and Stiles has to hold it away from his ear, he’s so loud.  Stiles thinks he should be offended that Scott seems so surprised all the time, about Stiles’ elemental superpowers, but it _is_ Scott, after all.  Not the brightest werewolf in the bunch.

“Yeah…” Stiles replies, too tired to think of some sarcastic remark.  “Yeah, it was me.” He does manage to sound sort of pissed, though.

“Whoa…” Scott lets out.  “Have you told Derek yet?”

“Have I told – “ Stiles starts, balking at the question.  Why would he have told Derek?  It’s not like the alpha is in charge of every supernatural phenomenon that occurs in Beacon Hills.  Plus, it’s only been a few minutes since Stiles even conjured up the lightning – for the _first time_.  It’s not like he keeps tabs on Derek, would be able to scout him out on a weekday afternoon just to say, “hey, I can shoot lightning bolts now…” or anything.  He tells Scott as much.

“You should talk to him…” Scott says, and Stiles suddenly thinks that maybe they’re not talking about the lightning anymore.  There’s something else behind the words, and Stiles wonders if it’s been _that_ obvious, his thing for Derek, or whatever.  Allison _was_ there the first time – the first time Stiles kissed Derek.  But he blames that one on the situation, on adrenaline.  He nearly kissed Allison as well, for Christ’s sake.  And he knows Scott would _not_ have been happy about that.

“Scott…” Stiles draws out his friend’s name, lets out a heavy sigh.

And it’s not like Derek doesn’t have a cell phone, couldn’t call or text Stiles if he wanted to.  But Stiles doubts that the werewolf ever uses the thing, or if he even knows _how_ to use it.  He just tends to show up places when he wants to talk to Scott or Stiles, lurking around the lacrosse field or in Stiles’ back yard like a creeper.  Or he sends a message through Boyd or Erica or Isaac, calls them all together to discuss some human or lupine threat. 

Plus, he’s probably still busy with the renovations to the Hale house, engrossed in fixing the place up, making it inhabitable instead of a burnt out shell of a house.  It’s taken him long enough – it’s been two years since he came back, since he caught Scott and Stiles on his property, looking for Scott’s inhaler.

“Look, Derek didn’t want to tell you…” Scott starts, and Stiles knows it’s going to be bad, whatever it is.  He feels his heart pound in his chest, waiting for whatever terrible news Scott is about to spill.

“But I think you should know, so you can be safe and all…” Scott tells him.

“Dude, just tell me what the fuck is going on!” Stiles almost shouts into his phone, getting more aggravated by the minute.

“It’s the hunters – they’re back,” Scott blurts out, and Stiles feels his stomach drop.

Stiles makes it to the Hale house in record time, slamming the door of his Jeep and stalking across the yard for effect.  But he knows Derek probably heard the familiar rumble when Stiles was still a mile or two out, that the wolf most certainly understands what Stiles is here for.

The hunters had returned, Scott had explained on the phone as Stiles grabbed his wallet and slipped on his shoes and headed for his Jeep. And this time, they brought back up.  The supernatural hunter and two of his buddies had survived the fight a month ago, and had retreated.  The two men that had kidnapped Stiles, however, had met their end.  But now those three were back – with others, apparently – and out for revenge.

And why Derek thought it best _not_ to tell him – well, Stiles couldn’t quite fathom.

Derek meets him on the porch, his mouth curved down into his trademark scowl, his arms crossed in front of him.  _At least he isn’t wearing that stupid leather jacket_ , Stiles thinks.

“What the _fuck_ , dude!” Stiles shouts, stopping a few feet short of the house, arms flailing to showcase his exasperation.

“You think it’s ok to keep something like this _from me_?” He asks, the timber of his voice rising as he stares the alpha down.  Derek hasn’t even flinched.  “The one they were after _in the first place_?!”

“You’re safe,” Derek replies, like that’s all that matters.

“I’m sa – “ Stiles starts, but the werewolf cuts him off.

“I’ve assigned nightly patrols around your house.” Derek explains.  “And we’re tracking the movements of the hunters…”

“You could have at least _told me_.” Stiles remarks, still feeling rather betrayed.  He’s still seen as the weak human, having to be protected by the pack.  Information withheld from him for his own good.

“We’re trying to avoid any type of confrontation at this point…” Derek continues.  “And this time they don’t want you.  They want us all – _dead_.”

The words cut deep, and Stiles realizes that his mouth is hanging open, but he doesn’t care.  He feels angry, hurt, left in the dark about this whole mess.  He’d been such a crucial player in the first go-round, and now they are leaving him out of everything.

“And you think this is going to end _without_ a confrontation?” Stiles retorts. “You’re a fucking asshole,” he adds, the words bitter on his tongue.  Derek makes his way down the front steps then, crosses the yard to stand in front of Stiles.

“I don’t want you getting hurt,” he says, and Stiles can hear the “not like last time” that the alpha doesn’t add.

“But I can be of _use_!” Stiles all but yells. “I have _skills_ , now, Derek – “

“I know,” Derek replies, his words soft.  “And I wanted to give you time to practice, to make sure you were ready…” Stiles just stares when Derek moves closer, places a warm hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve only known for two days,” Derek admits. Stiles thinks that if he squints, he might see a hint of remorse in those pale green eyes.  But Stiles knows Derek’ll never apologize for his actions, that in Derek’s world the alpha is always right.

“You could have told me…” Stiles says, but his words lack the bite of earlier.  He shoves Derek’s hand away and takes a step back before meeting the wolf’s gaze again.

“You think I’m just a weak human being,” Stiles starts.  “That you need to protect me.  But I’m _not_ weak – not anymore.  I can _do_ things – to protect you, to protect the pack…”

The sky has grown dark with clouds and the wind is howling around them by the time Stiles pauses.  Derek looks around, and then back to Stiles, and there’s that look again – like with the fire – his eyes wide with wonder and the hint of something else.  Something like fear.

Stiles sighs, stretches out one arm as if to grab something.  Then he lets it fall back to his side as he calms the wind, commands the clouds to dissipate.  He’s tired – more tired than he’s been in a long time – but he manages to make it back to his Jeep without stumbling.  He climbs in and starts it up, praying he won’t fall asleep at the wheel.

Derek just stands there, as if rooted to the spot, and watches Stiles leave.

“Thanks _a lot_ , guys…” Stiles says at school the next day, giving Isaac a pointed look.  The beta looks guilty – dejected, even.

“Derek told us we couldn’t tell you…” Isaac replies, sounding sheepish as he averts his gaze.  Stiles sighs in frustration.

“And you didn’t think I’d find out?” Stiles asks, incredulous.

“We didn’t want to worry you…” Boyd offers, and Stiles just has to gape at him.

“Oh and I _shouldn’t_ be worried about a whole troop of supernatural hunters that are out for revenge?!” He responds a little too loudly, garnering looks from students sitting at the nearest table.  They are in the cafeteria for lunch, but Stiles hasn’t touched his chicken strips.

“I’ll never understand Derek – or his lack of communication skills…” Stiles mutters and Boyd and Erica actually smirk at that.

“Look,” Boyd begins.  “We’ve been tracking their movements ever since we caught wind of them a few days back.  We had to confirm they were a threat before we planned anything, and honestly, we still don’t know what we’re going to do exactly…”

“Allison and her dad are helping us too,” Scott adds, grinning as he waves Allison over to their table, Lydia right beside her.

Stiles rolls his eyes as Lydia sits next to him.  She has a salad on her tray, but she ends up eating most of his fries – he doesn’t really have an appetite anymore.

“Well it’s obviously going to end up in some big, fucked up fight,” Stiles states matter-of-factly.  He looks at the betas, but they don’t respond.

“So how many are there…?” He finally asks.

Fifteen – not an impossible number, but definitely not five, like before.  It’s been a week since Stiles found out and the hunters have yet to do anything.  And Derek is adamant that the pack won’t be the ones to make the first move.

Stiles hates the waiting, hates how anxious he feels, how tense the wolves are.  They go on long runs to blow off some steam, and Stiles joins them quite often.  He also practices using the runes, drawing them out in the dirt or mud, then calling forth rain or wind or fire.  Earth is still being stubborn.  There’s just something missing, Stiles thinks, something that doesn’t connect quite right for him to control it.  Even the runes don’t seem to help.

And the book of incantations proves to be completely useless.  The Latin phrases are interesting, and he even enlists Lydia’s help to translate some of them, but he says them out loud over and over and over again without any sort of result.  Lydia tries them as well, but it seems that her magic only extends to being immune to the bite – not to mention looking flawless each and every day.

And it makes him tired, like he wants to sleep a full twelve hours after each display of power.  He is connected to the elements, like a conduit of sorts, but he’s expending all of his energy in those short bursts of activity.  If only he could find a way to reverse it…

He’s lost weight, what with all the running and the stress wrecking havoc on his appetite.  His cheeks are more hollow and he looks wane, and the werewolves tell him as much, send him home from training sessions early and always with someone to stand watch.  He doesn’t miss their worried glances, even Derek’s.

In fact, the alpha’s are probably the most noticeable.  He furrows his brows and frowns in disapproval when Stiles runs himself ragged.  His eyes go wide and his face is slack when Stiles causes three bolts of lightning to strike on the edge of the Hale property, his arms raised toward the heavens as the bursts of light and crackling electricity pop into being and crash to the earth.  He looks over his shoulder and sees Derek’s face, sees the blue flash from the bolts casting an eerie glow on his features.

It’s the last thing Stiles sees before he passes out.

When he wakes, he’s lying on the couch in the Hale house, and Peter is seated across from him in an armchair, staring.

“Had a little too much fun, did we?” Peter asks in a creepy singsong voice, a devilish smile on his features.

Stiles just groans as he pushes himself up to a seated position, his temples throbbing.  And then Derek is there, in the doorway, looking down at him with concern.  Stiles can’t take it – all the bullshit, the wolves looking at him like he’s some pathetic, fragile thing.

“I’ll drive you home.” Derek tells him.  It’s not an offer really, but an order, and Stiles bristles at the words.

“I’m _ok_ …” He replies, then stands up to prove his point.  But his muscles are weak, and he takes a few teetering steps before he has to reach out, make contact with Derek to steady himself.  Derek’s got one hand on Stiles’ shoulder, the other gripping his elbow tightly and they’re _so_ close.  Stiles can’t bring himself to look Derek in the eyes, though.

“Oh yes, you’re the picture of health…” Peter quips from the armchair, letting out a soft chuckle.  If Stiles weren’t so tired, he’d be rather frightened.  Stiles just sighs instead.

“Come on…” Derek says to Stiles, leading him out the front door, his grip still firm on Stiles’ right elbow.

Stiles hands him the keys and climbs into the passenger seat of his Jeep, feeling rather pitiful.  He thinks about leaning his head against the window but decides against it as the Jeep bounces along the dirt road from the Hale house.  His head is already pounding enough.

“You know, you _don’t_ have to do this…” Derek says after a few minutes of silence.  He’s staring straight ahead at the road when Stiles turns his head to look at him.

“Don’t have to do what?” Stiles snaps back. “Actually try to _help_ for once?”

“You’ve always been a help…” Derek admits, glancing over at Stiles.  Their eyes connect for a moment before Derek looks back at the road.  Stiles stares at the alpha, his mouth agape.  He doesn’t really know how to respond to that, but he feels like maybe, just maybe Derek _does_ appreciate him – he’s just a shitty communicator.

“I just mean this – all this _magic_ stuff,“ Derek continues.  “We’ve all noticed how it’s wearing you thin…”

“Whatever,” Stiles says bitterly, looking out the window as the trees rush by.  “You don’t understand.  You’re the big, bad alpha werewolf…and I – I’m just a human.  But I have this power – “

“And it’s draining you, Stiles…” Derek cuts him off.  Stiles doesn’t like what the wolf has to say because he knows it’s true.  He can feel how he’s spread himself thin, overworked himself with school and werewolf business and this whole controlling the elements thing.

“You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself…” Derek says.  It sounds so much like a plea that Stiles feels his heart flutter at the words.  A year and a half ago, Derek Hale wouldn’t have cared if Stiles killed himself trying to learn about his own innate supernatural abilities.  But they’ve been through too much.  They’re pack now.

But Stiles can’t explain how he finally feels useful, how the connection he feels with everything around him is second nature.  It’s the blood that pulses through his veins, the beating of his heart, the air in his lungs and the firing of millions of synapses in his brain.  It eases his fear, to know that he has such power.  It makes him feel alive.

“You know there’s nothing you can say that’ll stop me from doing this…” Stiles tells Derek.  They’re in his driveway now, the Jeep in park.  Stiles reaches for the door handle but Derek stops him, rests a hand on Stiles’ forearm.

And _god_ , the look on his face.  It’s so open, so broken – _so fucking tragic_.

“That’s the same thing Laura said, when I tried to convince her not to come back here…” Derek reveals, his voice barely above a whisper.

Stiles thinks he can hear both of their hearts breaking.

Laura, who could transform fully into a wolf.  Laura, who was cut in half, who Derek had to bury near their burnt out shell of a home.  The only family Derek has now is Peter, and Stiles can’t imagine the psychological trauma it must cause Derek to allow the person who killed his sister to live, to be a part of the pack.

He can feel Derek’s loss like something tangible.  Almost.

Derek pulls his hand away from Stiles slowly, and they both exit the Jeep, Derek tossing Stiles the keys.  The werewolf shakes his head a bit, blinks back the melancholy that has settled over his features and follows Stiles to the front door.

“You going to head back, or…?” Stiles doesn’t know what he expects, but he does know that there have been nightly patrols around his house, and he wonders if Derek is going to be assuming the responsibility that night.

“I’m going to stick around for a while,” Derek replies easily, as if they are discussing the weather – and that thought amuses Stiles, what with his supernatural abilities and all.  But he can’t laugh, he feels too deflated as he unlocks the front door.

“I’ll keep my window unlocked, you know, in case you get bored out there…” He offers.  But as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Stiles feels foolish.  Of course the alpha has climbed in Stiles’ window more times than he can count, but it sounds so different when Stiles brings it up – almost like it’s an invitation for more, and he feels his cheeks turn pink at what his offer could imply.  But Derek just nods solemnly before taking a few steps back, then heading off toward the tree line.

“Stiles…what’s going on?” His father asks the next day.  Of course the sheriff has noticed how thin and pale Stiles has become.  He gives Stiles a concerned look, a look that says he’s not letting Stiles out of his sights until he explains.

“It’s the hunters…” Stiles admits with a long exhale, hanging his head.  “The ones that hurt me – they’re back.  Well, not the _exact_ ones that hurt me – I mean, they’re _dead_ – but the others, the others are back, and with reinforcements – “ Stiles explains, rambling a bit.

“And just how long have you known this?” The sheriff asks, his brow furrowed.  _Just how long have you been keeping this from me?_ Is what Stiles really hears.

“Just a few days, I promise,” Stiles replies, thinking that it’s not _really_ a lie – eight days can constitute a “few.”  His dad sighs and rubs his hands over his face.  He looks so tired and old all of a sudden, and Stiles feels guilty for not telling his dad sooner.

“None of the pack wants me involved anyway, so you don’t have to worry…” Stiles adds, sounding just as irritated as he feels.

“What do you mean?” The Sheriff asks, looking perplexed.

“Derek didn’t even want to tell me.  It was Scott who finally did…” Stiles reveals quickly.

His dad lets out a surprised “huh” and goes quiet for a moment, but the silence drags on _forever_ in Stiles’ mind.

“I just can’t stand it,” Stiles says, standing up so that he can pace around the living room while he talks.  “They all think I’m just a weak human, that I’ll just get in the way – that’s why they don’t want me there – “

“I think they want to keep you safe…” the sheriff cuts him off and Stiles stops, whips his head around to stare at his dad.  “And that’s a good thing, in my book.”

Stiles sighs and stomps up to his room.

“We’re not done talking about this.” His dad calls after him, but Stiles doesn’t stop, just shuts the door behind him and settles at his desk.  He half expects one of the werewolves to be in his room, maybe even Derek, but there’s no sign of them.  His window _is_ cracked a few inches, though, and the evening breeze toys with the curtains.

He pours through the symbology book again, looking for some way to draw power _to_ him instead of leaching it out.  He goes back over the runes for protection, draws them out in the notebook he’s been keeping with him.  He knows what must be done to make them stronger, that the truest way to bind the spell to its user is to draw the symbols out in blood.

He hasn’t tried _that_ yet, though.

He eats more and rests when he can, determined to show the wolves – to show Derek – that he can have this power and use it too.  He loses the hollowness in his features, pretends that he’s only practicing the most rudimentary magic, and everyone seems to believe him.

His dad still gives him those worried looks, but he doesn’t say anything because Stiles’ grades are fine – he’ll graduate salutatorian, right behind Lydia – and he goes to bed each night at a decent hour.  He consults Deaton while Scott works in the vet clinic, flipping through every book the veterinarian owns, working on getting stronger both mentally and physically.

And then the hunters decide to attack.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stay within this circle, if you can,” Stiles tells them, gesturing to the wide ring of runes. “Attack the mage first – he’ll be weak, hopefully.” He adds, and he wonders when he became the leader of this ragtag group. Derek doesn’t correct him, and Stiles feels a surge of power at the thought of the alpha letting him boss the other wolves around. He feels the deep fluttering of something else, too.
> 
> But when he gazes out over the field, he knows the runes won’t be enough. There’s no way the fighting will be contained within in the protective circle, and so Stiles sighs, fishes around in his bag for the knife he packed.
> 
> He presses the blade to the pale skin of his forearm, drives the sharp point into his flesh – then down – with purpose. He hears Erica gasp as the iron in his blood oxidizes, turning bright red as it greets the air.
> 
> “Stiles – “ Derek starts, but Stiles can’t let him finish.
> 
> “Just trust me…” He says, meeting Derek’s gaze and holding it for a moment too long. His arm is stinging and there’s the warm slide of blood down over his wrist, his fingers, when he finally moves toward them.

It’s the middle of spring break when the hunters decide to attack, Chris and Allison off to visit relatives.  Allison had protested, hadn’t wanted to leave Beacon Hills, but had reluctantly agreed when her dad promised Scott that they were only a phone call away should anything happen.

And boy does it happen.

Stiles finds himself in the middle of a downpour, driving home from the daily lacrosse practices Finstock had scheduled during their break, when his phone goes off.  He only swerves _a little_ when he grabs it off the passenger seat and answers.

“It’s not me, _I swear_!” He yells over the blinding rain and thunder and lightning, no greeting necessary. 

“I _know_ it’s not you!” Derek yells back.  “Lightning just struck the house!”

Stiles gives it up and pulls onto the shoulder at that, puts the Jeep into park and throws his hazard lights on, just in case.  There’s no other traffic on the road, and without the Jeep’s steady rumble, he can hear Derek panting softly on the other end of the line, what sounds like the crunch of leaves…

“Oh my god, where are you?” Stiles replies, knows that by the sound of it, Derek is running – but whether it’s _to_ something or _away_ _from_ something is what he _doesn’t_ know.

Derek doesn’t reply, but he’s still on the line from the sound of it.  And Stiles is _so_ glad he stopped the Jeep, because not two seconds later a figure comes bursting out of the woods, barrels straight across the road.

“Holy shit!” Stiles shouts in surprise, nearly drops his phone.

Of course it’s Derek, cell phone in one hand.  And _of course_ he’s shirtless. 

And barefoot.

The alpha climbs into Stiles’ Jeep and Stiles just stares for a moment, mouth hanging open.  Derek buckles himself in, then looks over at Stiles.

“What the – “ Stiles starts, giving Derek a one-over.  The werewolf looks pornographic – wet sweats clinging to his thighs, water cascading over his muscular shoulders, down his perfectly toned chest….his hair dark and damp and plastered against his forehead.

“Stiles, drive!” Derek growls, his green eyes going wide.  Stiles thinks he sees the alpha’s teeth elongate – just a little – and that snaps him from whatever the fuck else he was thinking, makes him put the Jeep in drive and peel out onto the road.

“At least tell me where we’re going…” Stiles manages, once his heart stops pounding in his throat.

“To the vet clinic,” Derek replies promptly.  “That’s where I told everyone to meet up.” He explains. 

“And the house…?” Stiles ventures, curiosity getting the best of him.  Had months of renovations just gone down in flame – again, he wonders.  He glances over at Derek.

“I think it just damaged the roof,” the alpha replies solemnly.  “I didn’t exactly stick around to find out…”

“And it’s still only the one guy, right?” Stiles asks.  “Only one of them can control the elements?”

“As far as we know,” Derek nods, then looks back out the window.  “We haven’t seen or heard of anyone else in their group having those _abilities_ …”

It’s still raining heavily, but not like the torrential downpour of earlier.  Derek seems nervous, on guard even – as if the group of hunters will pop up at any minute, in the middle of the road.

“Well, he’ll be pretty wiped out after this, is my guess…” Stiles finds himself scanning the tree line as well, just as a precaution.

“Unless he’s figured out some way to _not_ use up all his strength…” Derek mutters, and it’s pointed, directed toward him, Stiles knows, but whatever.

“Nah, look at the rain. It’s barely sprinkling,” Stiles retorts.  “But if that _is_ the case, don’t kill him until he tells _me_ how to do that…” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

And Stiles knows that it could very well be true.  The hunters might be leading them to think that their mage has gone weak, trying to provoke the wolves into attacking just when they’ve set up some sort of trap.  The lightning and sudden rainstorm almost seem too showy to be a _real_ attack.

“Wait!” Stiles yells, slams on his breaks and sends them both pitching forward in their seats.  Good thing they’re buckled in.  Derek looks up at him like he’d better have a good explanation for the sudden stop.

“Tell them to meet us at the school, on the lacrosse field…” Stiles tells Derek, picks up his own phone in one hand to dial Scott’s number.  He swings the Jeep around and heads back toward the high school.

“Just do it,” he snaps at the alpha – who is looking at Stiles like he just sprouted a second head – while he waits for Scott to pick up.  Derek lets out an angry huff, but then he calls Boyd, tells him to head back to school.

They meet on the open field, by the bleachers.  Stiles is lucky, as none of them were too far from the school when the rain started, when lightning stuck the Hale house.  It makes Stiles wonder, though, if the hunters meant to attack them separately, or if they were trying to bring them together.  Whatever the case, they’re all here now – even Peter slinks out of the woods near the school like he owns the place. 

“Chris and Allison are on their way,” Scott tells them, having reported the attack to the Argents.  Stiles knows it’ll take them a good two hours to get back to Beacon Hills, though.  And a lot can happen in two hours.

And maybe it’s not such a good idea to be standing in an open field when there’s just been a thunderstorm, but Stiles thinks _two can play at that game_ …

Stiles works with hurried precision, tracing out the runes for protection in a wide circle, using the end of his lacrosse stick to etch the symbols into the wet earth.  They are still wearing their jerseys – Stiles, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd – and they look more like a team than ever, Stiles thinks.  He knows that it’ll help bind the spell for safeguarding to them even more.

The wolves are alert, using their heightened senses to pick up on any threat.  The hunters were close to the preserve, close to the Hale house when they first attacked, Derek had revealed to Stiles as they pulled into the school parking lot.  But now they are quiet, and at least downwind, since none of the werewolves can smell them.

“Stay within this circle, if you can,” Stiles tells them, gesturing to the wide ring of runes.  “Attack the mage first – he’ll be weak, _hopefully_.” He adds, and he wonders when he became the leader of this ragtag group.  Derek doesn’t correct him, and Stiles feels a surge of power at the thought of the alpha letting him boss the other wolves around.  He feels the deep fluttering of something _else_ , too.

But when he gazes out over the field, he knows the runes won’t be enough.  There’s no way the fighting will be contained within in the protective circle, and so Stiles sighs, fishes around in his bag for the knife he packed.

He presses the blade to the pale skin of his forearm, drives the sharp point into his flesh – then down – with purpose.  He hears Erica gasp as the iron in his blood oxidizes, turning bright red as it greets the air. 

“Stiles – “ Derek starts, but Stiles can’t let him finish.

“Just _trust_ me…” He says, meeting Derek’s gaze and holding it for a moment too long.  His arm is stinging and there’s the warm slide of blood down over his wrist, his fingers, when he finally moves toward them.

He starts with Erica – her eyes still wide with surprise, lips slightly parted.  She’s wearing a long-sleeved top, low-cut with a wide neck, so he draws the symbols right below her collarbones, tries not to use too much blood – he doesn’t want it to run down and stain her shirt.  It’s the same pattern he drew in the dirt, only this time he’s hoping the symbols will work no matter _where_ the wolves are.

He moves to Boyd next, then Isaac, then Scott.  He uses their forearms as his canvas – the underside, smooth and hairless.  Each dab at his wound hurts, but Stiles keeps a straight face, his mouth clamped shut in deep concentration.  He has to make sure they’re perfect.

Peter rolls up his sleeves, gazes predatorily at Stiles when he moves to trace the runes on the older werewolf.  Stiles tries not to shudder as he works, tries not to think about Peter grabbing his wrist nearly two years ago, offering Stiles the bite.

He does Derek last, letting out a long exhale as he moves to stand in front of the alpha.  Derek only has on a pair of black sweatpants, so there’s plenty of skin to work with.  The thought makes Stiles’ cheeks color, and he hesitates.

“You don’t have to do this…” Derek says softly.  It’s the same thing he said that night in Stiles’ Jeep, and Stiles still doesn’t quite understand it.  It’s not really about Stiles being a weak human, or whatever the fuck he’d been thinking it was about.  No, it’s almost as if Derek’s warning Stiles, saying, “I’m not worth the effort…” 

“Too late…” Stiles replies, his lips curving into a small half-smile.  It’s like a promise, and Stiles feels something stir deep within him as he meets Derek’s gaze.  He doesn’t look away as his fingers swipe at the blood on his arm, as he traces the symbols across Derek’s chest.

He takes a step back, pulls an old t-shirt from his bag and wraps it around his arm.  The blood has already started to congeal, and the cut is so superficial that he knows it won’t even scar.

The hunters appear then, marching out from the tree line, shoulder to shoulder.  There’s a low hanging fog from all the rain, and the sight is rather eerie – _like zombies_ , Stiles thinks, _but faster, and less dead_. 

They are heavily armed – crossbows and long bows, handguns and rifles – and Stiles spots their wizard – sorcerer, conjuror, whatever you want to call it.  He’s standing off to one side as the others stalk forward, staring at Stiles.

“The one in red, guys,” Stiles tells them, dragging his gaze away from the other magic user slowly.  Then he sees how the gang has already wolfed-out, claws and fangs at the ready, low growls and snarls emanating from their throats.

The hunters are close now, so close, and Stiles needs to get out of the way.

“Oh god…” he nearly squeaks as he takes one last look at the werewolves and heads for the bleachers, taking cover there.

Arrows and bullets start flying as the werewolves charge the hunters.  It’s six against fourteen – the mage hangs back – so it’s not bad odds at all, Stiles thinks, peaking through the metal bleachers.  Boyd brings the first hunter down – there’s a high-pitched scream and a low squelch as the werewolf clamps down on the man’s throat, crushing his trachea.

Erica is clawing at one guy’s back and Derek has just thrown three of the hunters halfway across the field, pulling the arrows they shot at him out of his chest like they’re nothing – and they _should_ have gone in much deeper, those shots were close range, Stiles thinks, which means the protection spells really _are_ working – when the wind starts up.

At first it’s just a flutter, barely rustling Stiles’ hoodie.  Stiles catches sight of the mage, his arms outstretched toward Stiles, before the wind whips into a fury, lifts Stiles up like he weighs no more than an errant leaf, then sends him back down, crashing into the earth.

It takes him a moment to catch is breath, recover from it all.  The ground is hard beneath him, and when he turns his head, he can see the fight.

Three or four of the hunters are dead or not moving, at least.  A few more are bloodied, injured in various ways, slinking off in retreat.  The rest of the hunters are gathered in a tight cluster, back to back, their weapons raised.  A tense stalemate has been reached, the wolves pacing back and forth, but neither party advancing.  Stiles feels relief to see that none of his friends are on the ground.

The ground.

He feels it then, the shift of something powerful and ancient beneath him.  In all his weeks of practicing, he’s never felt this connected to the earth, never felt this sure in his own abilities.  He’d tried and tried to call the earth by name, to command it to do his bidding.  But unlike air or water or fire, it had never obeyed.  It had remained strong and stubborn, fixed and unmoving. 

But now he feels the thrum of life all around him – through him.  The earth is no longer a static entity but moving, living.  He can feel the fire, deep within its core.  The water that runs through and through.  The oxygen and nitrogen and carbon dioxide that fill in all the spaces.

He feels a crackle of electricity in the air and looks up to the sky for a brief moment, then back over to the hunters’ mage.

And right before the lightning comes crashing down on the wolves, Stiles sees the universe come into being, sees the particles collide and expand and burst into existence from nothing.

Stiles’ parents had never been particularly religious.  Of course there was a nice service for his mother, when she died.  A reverend who said comforting words, patted Stiles on the shoulder.  There had been Sunday school, Stiles thinks, when he was little.  But he’d always gotten in trouble, hadn’t been able to sit still during the lessons, had asked too many questions like why did they have to bow their heads when they prayed?  Or could Abraham _really_ have kids when he was, like, over a hundred years old…?

Of course he’s read the Bible – there’s an old leather-bound copy on the bookshelf at home.  Of course he remembers the creation story from Genesis, what with the great Christian nation they live in and whatnot.  But suddenly the words are in his head like he read them only yesterday. 

_And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the earth…_

And Stiles knows why he hasn’t been able to control that particular element.  Why every attempt at moving the earth has failed.

He closes his eyes and presses his mouth to the dirt, like some homesick voyager back on dry land.

When he opens his eyes and stares at the group of hunters, he calls the earth by _his_ name.

Time seems to stand still for a few seconds, the whole planet pausing in its rotation about the sun.  The clouds and lightning the mage had been trying to summon stall out, and the ground begins to shake.

It’s been so long since he’s heard his own name.  His mother was the only one to call him that, and he’d buried it alongside her when she died. 

But now he understands the power in it.  Understands the gift she gave him. 

The breath in his lungs is the air; the blood that courses through his veins the water.  His thoughts and ideas are the spark – the fire.  And his body is the earth.

The ground opens up, swallows the group of hunters right in the center of the lacrosse field.

“Stiles!” He hears his name being called, but instead of from far away, it sounds as if Derek’s right beside him.

And that’s when Stiles realizes he’s standing – he doesn’t know how that happened – _and_ he’s in the middle of the field, between the wolves and where the hunters stood just moments earlier.  He doesn’t know how _that_ happened either.

The earth is still quaking, power coursing right through him.  The wolves are crouching, pushing themselves up from where they were knocked to the ground.  Derek’s already up, fully human as he reaches out and places a warm hand on Stiles’ shoulder.  Another arm slips around his middle, as if Derek is leaning forward to wrap Stiles in some sort of embrace.  But then Stiles realizes that the alpha is pulling him back, that the gaping chasm he opened up is getting closer and closer to where they stand.

When he commands it, the earth closes up, the edges of the rift coming back together in one shuddering motion.

Derek’s hands are warm around him, holding on tighter even though the earth has stopped shaking.  Maybe the alpha thinks Stiles will pass out, lose consciousness – or _worse_ – after such an act, and is trying to prevent a fall.  And Stiles feels the hand on his chest, the other on his stomach, lets the warmth along his back where Derek is pressed against him become his anchor.  He feels the pulse of life running through them both, feels so connected to everything now that he could burst into a million pieces.

But he doesn’t.

Stiles can feel Derek’s breath hot on the line of his jaw as the wolf clings to him.  He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and deflates a little, in Derek’s arms.  He feels anything but weak, though.  And then it hits him.

_Holy fuck, I just killed like nine people – maybe more…_

The wounded hunters who had retreated are long gone.  But everyone else – the ones that were lying still on the ground, the mage, and the able-bodied – they're all dead, crushed beneath tons of earth.

And the lacrosse field looks pristine, like nothing even happened.

Stiles is _not_ going to have a panic attack, nope.

His hands come to rest on top of Derek’s arms and the alpha loosens his hold a bit.  Stiles turns, brushes against Derek and if this were any other moment, Stiles would be hard, _so hard_ , but now – now he’s preoccupied with the thrum of energy that fills him to his core. 

The runes for protection are half-smudged on Derek’s chest, and Stiles’ long fingers come up to brush across them.  Derek is staring at him, wide-eyed, when Stiles finally looks at the other wolves.  Erica is leaning heavily on Boyd – in shock, it seems, since she doesn’t appear to be injured anywhere.  None of the group has a scratch on them, and Peter is standing toward the back, arms folded across his chest and a devious smirk on his face.

“Stiles…” Derek says his name so softly that Stiles wonders for a moment if he’s hearing things.  He realizes his hands are still on Derek’s chest, Derek’s fingers wrapped around each arm as if Stiles will fall over any minute.

Stiles takes one step back and goes down fast, bracing himself with his hands on the damp ground as he simply sits, then looks back up at them all and laughs. 

“Holy shit!” He laughs, staring up at Derek.  The alpha looks concerned, and he probably should be, Stiles thinks, because Stiles knows that if he wasn’t laughing, he’d be crying or screaming or freaking out in some form.  But then he figures the uncontrollable laughter _is_ him freaking out.

He just caused a mini-earthquake and took out a group of hunters.  He has every right to freak the fuck out.

“Stiles!” Scott yells, runs toward him, stopping near Derek.  “Are you ok?” He asks, his eyes wide with worry.  The other betas are just standing there, as if rooted to the spot.

“Holy shit…” Stiles replies, as if it’s the only thing he knows how to say.   

 Stiles, who is _never_ at a loss for words, can’t find anything to say.

Two years ago, he was a fairly normal teenager – struggling with his ADD, sitting on the bench with his best friend but happy to be a part of the team, pining over the girl he was sure was the love of his life.  But then Scott was bitten, and Stiles’ whole world changed. 

And he’d just gotten the hang of things – supernatural, werewolf-type things – when another bombshell had been dropped, two months ago. 

He has abilities – _supernatural_ abilities.  He can control the fucking elements, _if_ he focuses his thoughts, lets himself become a conduit for the energy of the universe.  It sounds like some New Age bullshit, but it really isn’t, Stiles thinks.  What it really is – well, it’s fucking awesome. 

And just like the werewolves need anchors – someone or something to keep them connected to the human side of themselves – Stiles realizes that he, too, has relied on them to keep him grounded.

He’s still laughing, but he’s quieter now and then he stops altogether.  Scott is crouching over him, still looking rather worried.  Stiles moves to stand, and there’s Derek’s arm, outstretched to help him up.  Stiles accepts it, extending his own arm toward the alpha.  Scott moves back and Derek curls his hand around Stiles’ forearm, tugs him up and doesn’t let go right away.

They share a significant look. Derek’s green eyes are still too wide, full of concern, his mouth turned down at the edges.  And for one panic-filled moment, Stiles thinks it’s all going to fall apart.  He’s going to freak out for real, and then Derek will lecture him about how Stiles should have listened to him, should have stopped with the whole magic thing.  How Stiles should have never been involved. 

But then something else flashes across Derek’s face – a look like he wants to close the distance between them, like he wants to reach out and touch Stiles, _really_ touch him.  Stiles feels his heart beat stutter and nearly starts laughing again because of everything that just happened, _this_ is what causes his pulse to quicken.  But then the look on the alpha’s face is gone, replaced with one of quiet restraint.  He drops his hand from Stiles’ arm and gives him a solemn nod.

Stiles scrubs his hands across his face, wonders if he’s suddenly sprouted horns or something, with the way Isaac and Erica and Boyd are staring at him.  Scott’s right there, though, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ shoulder.

“Dude, you ok?” Scott asks softly, squeezing Stiles’ bicep. 

“Yeah, just peachy…” Stiles manages as they walk slowly toward the parking lot.  Derek is the only one who follows.  The others just stand in the field, like they’re in some sort of trance.

By the time he and Scott reach the edge of the asphalt, he turns in time to see the betas snap out of it and lope toward them. 

“I’ll drive him,” Derek tells Scott when they reach the Jeep, and _oh great, here comes the lecture_ , Stiles thinks.  Scott only pauses for a second before he agrees.  He doesn’t move away until he asks Stiles if he’s really ok like three more times, though.

“I’m going to go check on the house,” Peter says, giving Derek a pointed look.  The older werewolf glances between Derek and Stiles for a moment, chuckles to himself as if over some private joke before he heads toward the preserve. 

Isaac and Erica and Boyd finally approach him, their looks of shock downgraded into a certain level of awe.  Erica tilts her head and smiles, and Stiles can’t help but smile back.  They hug him then, all three of them moving forward to wrap their arms around him.  Stiles has a face full of Erica’s hair, but he can see the look on Derek’s face – a mixture of amusement and impatience – and Stiles laughs, bright and clear, and the betas laugh with him, tell him how awesome that was.

He and Derek are back out on the main road when it hits him again, the gravity of it all.  There were people – living, breathing people – and now they are gone, wiped from existence by his own power.  The hunters had been stubborn, should have given up after the first time, but they hadn’t.  Still, Stiles wonders if they had families, children who will never see their parents again, wives whose husbands will never return…

“Oh god…” Stiles starts to mutter, feels the crushing weight of an impending panic attack.  He’s staring straight forward, but his eyes don’t focus.  He doesn’t see the road.  He sees the earth open up into a never-ending pit, threatening to give way beneath his feet as well.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god…” is his mantra now.

Derek pulls off the road and throws the Jeep into park, nearly tears out of his seatbelt as he reaches out toward Stiles.

“Stiles,” he pleads, leaning across the gearshift.  His hands are on either side of Stiles’ face when he practically yells.

“Stiles!  Look at me!” Derek shouts, turning Stiles’ head slowly yet forcibly toward him.

“I killed them…I…I killed them.  They’re gone, ha!  They’re gone…” Stiles is rambling and he feels like he can’t breathe, like the whole world is going to end.  He finally meets Derek’s gaze for a brief moment before the werewolf lunges at him.

Derek’s mouth is hot and wet as it crashes down on Stiles’, the kiss sudden and violent and not at all like the other kisses he’s shared with the alpha.  It’s a shock to Stiles’ system, Derek biting at his lips, his fingers curled into Stiles’ hair.  It’s like a slap to the face, Stiles thinks, only _way better_ , and then he realizes that he’s no longer freaking out.  That the panic attack has ended abruptly and now Derek Hale is kissing him, and Stiles had better kiss him back, for all he’s worth.  So Stiles does.  But it must signal something to Derek, because he pulls back suddenly, and Stiles feels like he can’t breathe for an entirely different reason.

He’s panting, open-mouthed and staring, and his lips feel swollen and bruised.  Stiles' whole body feels like a live wire, and he feels everything – where the seatbelt is rubbing against his neck, the throbbing cut on his forearm, the tufts of hair tugged out of place by Derek’s hands, his dick hard in his jeans.

“Uh…” Stiles clears his throat.  “Thanks…” He manages, trying hard not to think about his arousal.

_Haha, hard…Oh, god…_

Derek just stares at him for a moment, then puts the Jeep in drive and pulls back onto the road.

_Great talk,_ Stiles thinks sourly.  _Some things never change…_

Stiles just looks ahead at the road, and it surprises him when Derek speaks up. 

“What you did back there, with the hunters…” the alpha starts, and Stiles thinks, _great, this is the part where he tells me to never do that again..._

“You saved us,” Derek admits.  “With the symbols, with everything…”

“Is this your way of saying ‘thank you?’” Stiles asks, knows he probably shouldn’t interrupt the alpha when he’s actually communicating, even if it is vague or stunted.  “Because if it is, then – “

“Stiles, just let me finish,” Derek cuts him off, an irritated grate to his voice.  But he glances over at Stiles like he’s actually relieved, like it’s a good sign that Stiles’ sarcasm is returning full force.

“Thank you,” Derek does say it then, and Stiles could laugh, but he doesn’t.  “You’re an important part of the pack,” the alpha continues.  “And you really proved that today.”

And Stiles thinks about how he took charge, how he gathered them all at the lacrosse field, knowing it would be better to be in an open space than cramped in the vet clinic when the hunters came for them.  How the wolves had actually listened to him.

“Wow, uh…ok,” Stiles replies, stops himself before he says something he’ll regret.  And then he curses himself because this is absolutely the _worst_ time for his sardonic sense of wit to make its comeback.  It’s a coping mechanism, he knows, and it’d be easier just to brush everything off, pepper it with humor instead of dealing with it head-on. 

The rest of the ride back to his house is quiet, and Stiles is quite proud of himself for being able to keep his mouth shut.  Whatever this thing is, between him and Derek, he doesn’t want to ruin it.  But he also knows that at some point, they _are_ going to have to talk about it.

When they pull into the driveway, his dad’s cruiser is absent, and Stiles is glad.  He’ll have to tell his dad about the whole mess with the hunters sooner or later, but he’d rather it be later.  For now, he just wants to take a shower and fall face-first into bed.

When Stiles climbs out of the passenger side and Derek tosses him his keys, it reminds him of that night, weeks ago, when Derek tried to convince Stiles drop the whole magic thing.  They are beyond that now, though – _way_ beyond it, Stiles thinks. 

Derek follows Stiles to the front door and Stiles feels his pulse quicken.  Is this where they part ways?  Where Stiles makes some attempt at witty banter and Derek just scowls before stalking off into the woods?  Stiles isn’t sure what he wants, but it isn’t that.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long, though, because Derek crowds in on him just as Stiles fits the key into the lock. He grabs Stiles’ wrist, right above the angry rend in his flesh, and Stiles manages to push open the front door before he turns back toward Derek.

Stiles isn’t quite sure who moves first.  Perhaps they both move at the very same time and meet in the middle.  They kiss – for the second time in just a handful of minutes – and Stiles can’t help but think how that’s never happened before.  It’s much gentler this time, Derek’s lips steady and sure on Stiles’.

“So, are we going to have that conversation…?” Stiles nearly laughs, his lips moving against Derek’s as he speaks.

“You really want to talk about that _now_ …?” Derek mouths into the kiss, quirks one dark eyebrow at him as his hands come to rest on Stiles’ hipbones.

“God, no…” Stiles replies, doesn’t even pause to think about it.  He just presses harder into the kiss and tugs Derek inside, closing the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it! The end! Hope you guys enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. It started as just an idea, then a one-shot, and morphed into this. And I can't resist a magic!Stiles storyline. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Fulminology is the study of lightning
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at http://museofmirth.tumblr.com/


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